A habit
by pumpie2
Summary: After a fight John goes missing. Sherlock must pick up the pieces when John worst habit picks up again. eventual SLASH. First time fic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I told myself I wouldn't do a multi-chapter fic but I just can't help myself. Reviews mean more chapters (:  
**

He was bored, bored, bored, bored and John wasn't here and he was bored. In fact, now he looked at the clock with the smashed face that still lay in a crumpled heap by the fireplace, now he looked John had been gone since yesterday morning and it was... just past midnight. Sherlock frowned and checked his phone, still no reply. So he was ignoring Sherlock's texts, fine, it had only been a spat, nothing of consequence ...or had it, had he said something that had really hurt John? It didn't seem possible. The man was strong, confident; he couldn't be hurt by silly little words.

The detective shook his head and picked up his phone to call his colleague, groaning when he noticed not one feeble bar of signal. He threw the expensive piece of kit across the room hearing a sharp crack and then a soft thump as it hit the wall and landed on the couch. He hooked his legs over the arm of John's chair and ran a hand down its back watching the trails of his fingers as they dragged the delicate fabric down.

"Mrs. Hudson!" she appeared almost instantly frowning and tutting and picking things up around him.

"What is it Sherlock? John's been out an awfully long time."

Sherlock glared at the fussing woman. "I noticed. I need to use your phone."

"You will have to use the landline dear; I can't understand those new portable phones. They make them so over complicated."

Sherlock moaned and swung himself to his feet stamping away like a petulant child. He rang John's phone, the number learnt by heart. (Just incase he was stuck without his mobile of course) after a tense couple of seconds the call picked up.

"Hello?" it was a woman's voice...a woman. A woman had answered John's phone, of course. He must've run to Sarah. Sherlock growled under his breath and clutched the phone tightly.

"Sarah. Can you put John on the phone?"

He was trying his best polite voice and she had the nerve to cackle. Sherlock squinted at Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper. "Oh this isn't Sarah. You might want to talk to him though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course, that was exactly what he wanted idiot. There was a moment where the mobile was passed over and then John's sluggish, sleepy voice rang out and the detective sighed. He sounded drowsy, he must've woken them.

"John. Where are you?"

"Sh-Sherlock?" there was a soft moan then the call was hung up leaving the detective holding the earpiece away from his face and staring at it in disbelief. He didn't want to think about what could be happening on the other side of the phone, with his John. And there it was, _his _John nobody else's. He had managed through some extraordinary stroke of luck to procure a friend and he wasn't letting him go.

So he went to bed and he slept (kind of) and he woke up to an empty flat his face bunching up more and more as he looked around and texted again but found no replies. Well not from John at least, Lestrade had sent him a simple text about a lead on his latest case.

Twelve men injected with some sort of poison and tied in their underwear to the bed.

He had told the DI that he was busy with other things, he wasn't Lestrade's nanny but that didn't stop him from sending updates trying to bait the detective into being interested. He had more pressing matters to attend but he text back anyway, it gave him an excuse to pick John up from where ever he was, to see him again.

Lestrade didn't text back right away and so he called his colleagues mobile and the woman picked up again. "Hellloooo?"

"What is your address? I need to pick up John."

"You already have it honey."

She hung up again and Sherlock snarled at the phone, what did she mean! He span around eyes trailing over and over their collective junk (well it was mostly Sherlock's) until his gaze landed on a strip of paper, Johns familiar scrawl on the corner and it all came back to him. He had been writing something down when Sherlock had come home and then Sherlock asked for a cup of tea and the doctor flew off the handle. Or at least that's how he remembered it. Striding over he yanked the paper from under a small pile of books and clasped it tight in his hand rushing out of the door and down the street to hail a cab.

He stared out of the window counting off streets names as they passed them, hands jiggling on his legs. He was angry, angry at John for staying away so long, angry at John for choosing some woman over him. What about Sarah? He didn't seem like the type to cheat but then...he hadn't seen her around much lately either. It was true that when she was there he went out of his way to ignore her but then what are you supposed to do when the only person you've ever had anything more than contempt for starts going out with some woman from work. What's wrong with a detective at home?

It is more geographically sound.

He was pulled form his reverie by the rough voice of his cabbie. "Sorry mate. Can't go any further." Sherlock looked up to see police tape everywhere and he sucked in a breath leaping from the backseat and throwing a twenty at his driver.

He pushed his way past the barrier and found Lestrade looking tense in a bullet proof vest. "Sherlock, what are you doing here? I didn't even send you the address."

"No need. John found it two days ago."

"Two days...when exactly were you going to tell me that!"

"What's the situation?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, used to being ignored. "Turns out eight of the twelve victims visited a brothel three days before they disappeared and when our guys looked over things again we realised they were missing for three days _exactly_ before their bodies were found. Asked around and found out that only one person turned up missing from work at the times the men went missing. This is her address."

Sherlock froze.

The killer lived here, not a date. John sounded drowsy...drugged. She had him drugged somewhere in that building. He turned sharply blinking confused as Lestrade had carried on his spiel.

"So she is holding a hostage at gunpoint."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive, she shot Sergeant Phillips in the arm."

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, how inconvenient of them to shake at a time like this. He glanced at the house a simple three story townhouse, completely plain, boring and unremarkable. He glared at the plain red door, teeth grinding together.

Lestrade touched him on the arm and he realised the inspector had been calling his name. "What is it?"

"Johns in there..."

Then he couldn't hold back any longer, his heart hammering in his chest. Lestrade's eyes grew comically wide and Sherlock pushed past him, running up to the door ignoring the calls of the swat teams as he banged heavily on the peeling wood, the doorframe rattling with the force.

"It's me, Sherlock Holmes. Let me in."

There was a few seconds of silence and he thumped his hand back down. "I know you're in there."

"You wana come in honey bear?"

Sherlock frowned and bent down to look through the letterbox, his eyes meeting the make-up caked green eyes of the killer. "Yes." The eyes squinted with joy and suddenly the door was thrown open and he was yanked inside, the sound of a lock behind him followed by a chorus of shouts from outside.

He turned to face the woman sucking in a breath when he noticed the antique shotgun aimed directly at his chest and held by a beautiful black haired woman, lips ruby red and dressed in a tight black dress and black leather boots. She was simpering and smiling at him, batting her eyelashes. "Oh Sherlock honey, did I really have to go this far to get your attention?"

Sherlock glared at her and she smirked back up at him not noticing the three swat members peering in through the windows. Sherlock took a step forwards so she was stood just by the door and she grinned reaching a hand up to touch his face.

"Where is John?"

"Oh he is sleeping."

"This is a bit of a break in your pattern isn't it? John never went to the brothel; he isn't your usual victim type at all."

She sniffed and cocked her hips to the side looking down and then she lowered the rifle hands shaking as she looked back up at him, her face morphing into a snarling rage filled beast. "You were ignoring me! I had to get your attention somehow! Was I not interesting enough for you, you selfish arrogant stuck up pri-"

The doors burst open and she was almost instantly tackled to the ground the gun kicked away by one of the swat team. Sherlock barely glanced her way before he was off running up the stairs, winding through the corridors until he smelt it, the scent of lavender.

Lavender?

He skidded around the corner and exploded through a set of double doors, entering a heavily scented bedroom. The walls were a pale pink colour, the floor pale wooden floorboards. He took a step forwards, there in the centre of the room was a enormous four poster bed, draped in thick purple curtains that hid the mattress from view. He sucked in a breath and walked quickly to the side pulling the thick fabric over to reveal John.

John was...just lying there, the only movement the shaky rise and fall of his chest. Sherlock ripped the curtains apart and panted as he stared down, he was naked, bar a pair of boxer shorts, skin grey, and eyes rolling back in his head, hands handcuffed to the headboard. The thundering steps of the swat team filled his ears and he ripped his coat off laying it over his friend, (John wouldn't want to be seen like this)

The next few minutes were a blur, dotted with flashes of images, Lestrade's shocked face as John was wheeled out on a stretcher, the paramedic's hands on John's bare chest, the doors closing behind him as he stared out of the ambulance at the killer, her wink that shook through his bones and made his stomach flip with anger.

He just blinked at the doctor as he explained that John had been injected with a fatal dose of some poison or other but they had an antidote and it would be touch and go for a while. If he regained consciousness, it was a positive sign.

He focused on that part, he didn't care what had caused it and what they were doing to make it better just that John would wake up again, would turn to him and complain that Sherlock was always getting him in trouble and why does he keep doing this to himself and you didn't pick up any milk again did you, don't leave body parts there, how did this bottle of chemical end up here?

He sighed and slumped into the uncomfortable plastic covered chair beside John's bed. How selfish of him to keep his eyes closed, to stay in this silly little coma of his. How selfish of him too leave Sherlock in this in between state, trapped amid panic and his usual logic.

He blinked his eyes open a few hours later, his sleep interrupted by Mycroft's polite cough. "What are _you _doing here?"

He had the audacity to look offended and banged his umbrella on the floor. "I'm here to check up on you."

"Check up on me? There is nothing wrong with me."

"Well that's not quite true is it? It's not every day that you make a friend let alone have to deal with them being...incapacitated."

His gaze fell on John's prone form and Sherlock flipped his legs over so he was sat up in the chair, body leant slightly towards him as though protecting him from his older brother. He glanced at his colleague and back at Mycroft. "He will be okay."

Mycroft squinted at him, the same way he used to look at him when they were kids. It was a look that spoke of his greater understanding of human behaviour and...feelings.

"I'm sure he will."

He was being nice and it was then that the detective realised he must look awful, that his brother must be able to read his desperation in his face. He looked away. "It was my fault." His voice was barely over a whisper and he heard his brother sigh shifting his weight from one hip to the other. Johns chest was rising and falling regularly and form his position Sherlock could see the veins in his neck pulsing only slightly.

"No, it wasn't."

He couldn't look at him anymore so he stared back up at the seemingly concerned man. "I made him angry at me and he left again. I ignored her and so she took him."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment and then he fixed his brother with a somewhat inquisitive stare. "How did you get in here? Visiting hours ended hours ago. I of course am above such things but you...your a member of the public."

Sherlock blushed only very slightly and looked just over his brothers' shoulder. "I told them we were married."

Mycroft rose one eyebrow and smirked. "I see. And they believed you...how interesting."

Sherlock just glared at him. There was a hoarse cough from his right and he turned his head sharply, Johns eye lids fluttered and slowly they cracked open, warm hazel eyes peered out at him and he frowned.

"Not your date."

Mycroft sniffed and Sherlock glanced back him, tearing his eyes from his colleagues face, his sibling was hiding a smirk rather badly. "If you will excuse me, can't leave the office for too long."

He fixed Sherlock with that look again and then he was gone in a swish of expensive fabric. So the detective looked back and blinked at John's face, that fantastic face and his eyes looking back at him. That white hot speck in the pit of his stomach disappeared the more he stared and so he drank it up.

After a minute of blatant staring he realised John was looking at him oddly and suddenly the world was back in focus, as was his colleagues face. The area around his eyes was tight; teeth gritted together hands clasping the sheets.

"John? Are you okay?"

"My head hurts, and I can't remember anything from the...what day is it?"

"Thursday."

"oh."

Sherlock smiled and John blinked his eyelids drooping a little so Sherlock reached for his remote thing, pressing the button to call the nurse.

He sat back as they bustled around the doctor, asking him questions and injecting things into the iv. John answered politely smiling and thanking them, hands shaking slightly as he gestured around himself. The detective took the time to reassess his own physical state, his heart beat returned to normal, breathing less restricted now John was conscious, hands had regained their steady form and he relaxed back into the uncomfortable chair, a soft smile about his lips. He was here with John, and John was stuck with him, he couldn't leave again.

At least until he was discharged.

Eventually the nurses left and the battered mans tired gaze fell on him. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"We had a fight... I was angry, really angry and I turned the corner and then I heard a scream...I think I heard a scream." He frowned, eyes focussed on the sheets as he tried to remember. "It was a woman screaming for help so I ran down this alley and I felt a sharp prick on my neck and I turned around and someone was laughing and then... I woke up on this bed. I was...oh god did the entire squad see me..."

Sherlock shook his head and the doctor's head slumped back to the pillow in relief. "She was keeping me drugged, it's all a bit hazy."

"Is that it?"

"No no... The drugs would start to wear off and it would get a bit clearer. I was..." Johns face dropped and he looked out at the window, dawn now breaking over London. Sherlock sniffed, he didn't know what to do so he did what he'd seen on the TV.

He put his hand over Johns.

It seemed to work the dishevelled man turned to him with a surprised gasp and then he smiled slightly biting his lip. "I was scared. I didn't want to...oh this is stupid."

"Go on."

"I didn't want to die with you angry at me."

The detective frowned blinking. He didn't know what to make of that...w hat did normal people do? Was that a good or a bad thing? So he decided being honest was probably the best method. "I wasn't angry, I was bored and thirsty."

"You mean you didn't even make yourself a drink?"

"My tea isn't as good as yours."

John chuckled and Sherlock joined him, hand still grasping his colleagues gently. Perhaps he was better at this 'human' thing than he had theorised.

The doctor yawned moving his hand from under Sherlock's and stretching, his shoulder popping audibly. "You should sleep."

He was positive that was the correct thing to say because John smiled again, nodding at him "Yeah. Are you going home?"

He ignored the warmth spreading from his stomach at the familiar way he said that, at the sad tone as if he almost didn't want the detective to leave, he also didn't call it 'the flat' anymore. Now it was _home_.

"Mmm I have a few experiments in the morgue so..."

"You really should get some sleep too."

"I did while you were in that coma."

John raised an eyebrow at him about to argue when his chiding was cut off by another massive yawn. "Fine. At least if you pass out you're in a hospital."

Sherlock laughed and stood hands in suit pockets awkward, watching his colleague wriggle down the bed eyes drooping shut. He was fascinating to watch and there was something about his face and his expressions and the way he spoke to Sherlock that made him feel... close to something. Like the ten inch thick walls he carried around with him were just tissue paper in the rain, dissolving into mush.

He waited until John was settled before inching out the door, passing the nurses on the way out. They looked at him smiling sympathetically and one put her hand on his arm. "He will be okay Mr. Watson. He just needs rest now."

Sherlock just nodded, he didn't understand why they were calling him Watson or why she needed to touch his arm. Perhaps they thought he was upset? Like John, when he had put his hand on the doctors he had made him smile. That was probably it.

Sherlock inched away from them and escaped for a few blissful hours to his lab, his peace interrupted by Lestrade being led in by Molly. She was looking at him oddly and Lestrade simply looked tired. "Sherlock, I can't seem to find John and I need to take his statement for the court case."

Sherlock placed the pipette on the counter and wiped his hands on a nearby lab coat. "Why didn't you just ask at the desk"

"I was going to but Molly here told me she knew where you were and that you haven't eaten yet."

The detective frowned at the blushing woman. "Why does it matter if I have eaten?"

"Because I can't have you keeling over and since John isn't there to look after you the responsibility has fallen on my shoulders."

"Look after me? I don't need looking after."

Why was everyone so worried about him all of a sudden, making sure he had slept making sure was eating. Sherlock glanced t his reflection in a test tube that contained silver nitrate, glucose and ammonia giving the silver mirror effect. His warped image seemed normal enough and so he chalked it up to everyone else ability to read emotions more easily, perhaps they could just tell that he was...worried? Tired? That he wasn't his usual mostly logical self.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, hand sliding into his pocket to pull out a twenty pound note. "Look I have twenty quid, I'll buy you anything you want from the canteen and you can take me to John afterwards."

Sherlock squinted at him; the note was crisp clean and smooth. "Did my brother give you that note?"

The detective inspector blushed a little; Mycroft had contacted him almost as soon as Sherlock had started working with him and always asked for checkups on Sherlock's general well being. "Yes. He seems to think that you're so distraught that you won't eat."

The detective glared at Lestrade's all too pleased face, he felt tense and humiliated. "Well he is wrong." Reaching out a pale hand he snatched the note from the inspector and gestured for him to lead the way, eyes now boring into Molly.

This was her fault.

He reluctantly ordered a portion of greasy chips and a side of sausages in some sort of gravy based sauce and slipped into the booth opposite Lestrade who was tucking into his dinner straight away. Sherlock sniffed and picked at his meal, it was true he wasn't very hungry. All he could think about was Johns grey pallor, the strange heat of his skin when his fingers had brushed across his cheek as he laid his coat on him. It made his stomach turn and right now he just wanted to go outside and steal a fag off anyone within a foot of him.

"You said you weren't worried."

Sherlock didn't look up instead he took a big bite of one of the sausages chewing slowly, fixing Lestrade with a triumphant stare as he tried not to gag. He didn't seem impressed.

"She won't stop talking about you."

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful and raised an eyebrow "Hmmm."

"Maybe next time you will answer my texts when I ask you about a case. You've never been so reluctant before."

"What do you mean?"

"Well it's been over a week since the last case you had a look at. Normally you take one or two more than that. Been busy?"

"I had some cases of my own."

"So you **weren't** just sat in that flat all day every day."

He said that like he knew something Sherlock didn't and the detective glared at him. What exactly what he trying to say? "You're clearly trying to get at something."

Infuriatingly Lestrade just chuckled and slid from the booth, checking the time on his phone. "Are you done? I need to get back before two."

Sherlock glanced down at his barely touched plate, he had managed at least a third of the chips and a whole sausage. He was done. He had almost forgotten about his little white lie when he pressed the buzzer to be allowed onto the ward. The nurse greeted him at the door an eyebrow raised in Lestrade's direction.

"Mr Watson, John is just talking with the doctor. Is this a friend of yours? Visiting hours aren't until three..."

"Oh no. I'm detective inspector Lestrade. I need to collect a statement from John Watson?"

The nurse smiled up at him and addressed Sherlock again. "He was asking for you."

Well that sent a tiny spark straight to his heart and he licked his lips hands in his pockets carefully avoiding eye contact with a now almost gleeful Lestrade. "Oh did he?"

"I told him, my husbands just the same always off in his shed, and sometimes I won't see him for hours on end. Get's so lost in his little projects."

Sherlock blushed, eyes on the floor. What exactly had John told her?

"Yes well, I expect they are vastly different form my own. "

With that he brushed past the nurse and made for Johns room.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: oh my god you guys, thanks for all the reviews. You all deserve Sherlock cookies. He is another chapter as promised, more to come soon (:_

Lestrade was chuckling behind him as the detective strode ahead. He tried in vain to ignore the sly glances and giggles the DI was fixing him with. Not really befitting a man of his station but then not everyone can be a gentleman.

John's doctor looked about six and Sherlock pouted at him, how did this man know anything? He didn't look like he had even left his parents home yet. Lestrade bumped gently into the back of him and Sherlock realised that he had stopped in his tracks. He stepped smartly to the side to allow Lestrade in and then walked to John's side, eyes still on his doctor.

"Ah, Mr. Watson. I was just giving John the good news, the poison that we treated is highly toxic but luckily it has an extremely short toxicity life, breaking down after around 24 hours."

"Yes I am aware of that."

The doctor looked at him, his easy smile dripping off his face at the detective abrupt tone. John sighed and Sherlock turned to face him catching the glare he was receiving. "I mean... is that the good news?"

The doctor licked his lips smile back on his face like wallpaper and he grasped his clipboard with both hands, toothy grin, shining blue eyes and short blonde hair. He looked like a male model, a six year old male model. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes it is. He should be free to go after a night or two of observation."

That was good news, his life would be back to normal (well as normal as it ever got) in just another night. John clearly did not like being a patient and the detective was pretty sure he would insist on just one night's bed rest. His shoulders relaxed a little and the detective slumped back into the now familiar cheap plastic of the bedside chair a smile about his lips and John all but beamed at him and then Lestrade.

He didn't hide his own happiness, leaning away from John with a smug grin, making eye contact that surprisingly the doctor held, his smile slipping a little when the air suddenly began humming with tension. It was almost too much to bear before his colleagues gaze turned away and landed on the detective inspector. How very odd.

The doctor took this as his cue to leave and he raised a hand in goodbye before scooting out of the door. Lestrade managed to hold back for all of two seconds before his manic grin burst and he peered at Sherlock peevishly.

"Why did they call you Mr. Watson?"

John rolled his eyes smile dissipating and Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself looking away from the doctor. "Sherlock told the nurses he is my husband so he could stay."

There was a long silence and then Lestrade burst out laughing looking between the two men. He was laughing so hard in fact that he doubled over, hands on knees face pink. It was..._humiliating_.

Sherlock made sure not to look at either of them instead flinging his legs over the arm of the chair and pulling his coat tighter around himself. Lestrade and John's conversation washed over him as he stared at the pale yellow wall in his direct eye line. He was angry, ashamed and was regretting the whole husband thing. He hadn't thought it through; it was a spur of the moment _emotiona_l thing. He huffed out a breath unwrapping and rewrapping his arms.

How bloody ridiculous.

John was clearly also a bit angry that he had told them that, and Lestrade clearly found some humour in the fact. He couldn't help feeling like he was missing something; it was unsettling to say the least. The idea that he Sherlock Holmes consulting detective was missing something that the frankly ordinary Lestrade had already noticed sent a shiver down his spine. Today really wasn't a good day.

After a while (he couldn't be sure how long, time seems to slow when you are gasping for a fag.) he heard his name being called and he turned is head to face John. "What?"

"Did you eat something?"

Sherlock glared at him. This was getting ridiculous. "This is getting ridiculous. I am fully capable of looking after myself. Why exactly does everyone around feel the need to act like I'm a invalid or small child!"

"I was only asking."

"Yes well... how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine thank you. "

"Good."

It was awkward, tense and Sherlock sighed facing away again. "Sherlock, why did you tell them we are married?"

"I wanted to stay."

"Why?"

Sherlock frowned; he didn't know why it had been so important to him. There was clearly nothing he could've done for John just by being there. "I didn't want to go back to the flat."

"Yeah but why?"

"It's empty."

There was a long silence and finally Sherlock grew tired of the strained tension and he span his whole body, feet planting firmly on the floor, hands on his knees, eyes fixed on Johns expression. He seemed confused and there was something else he wasn't sure how to classify.

"Unfortunately sharing a flat with you has caused me to grow accustomed to having another person around. To be alone for an extended period of time is now...abrasive."

This was true of course but there was more, he had been _worried_ about John.

John shut his mouth with a snap blinking and shaking his head as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. "Sherlock I..."

He was interrupted by the sound of heels on hard floors and Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner smiling and holding a slightly wilted bouquet of flowers. "John, dear."

John smiled at her. "Mrs Hudson."

"Oh how are you feeling dear? Sherlock's not irritating you is he?"

The detective sniffed and glared at her. He was offended at the implication that John did anything but revel in his presence. He had better disagree.

"No no, nothing I can't handle."

Good boy.

The old woman smiled and bustled around to the side of the bed peering closely at Johns face and smoothing his hair as if he was a small child. "Tsk, Sherlock can't you ask the nurses for a vase to put these in?"

The detective frowned, how dare she act as though he was a common slave. John glanced at him eyes wide flickering expressively from the softly smiling landlady and back, almost pleading in their intensity and he found himself on his feet and striding out of the door.

When he returned Mrs. Hudson directed him to place the vase on the side unit and empty the paper packet of plant food into it. She then placed the flowers in the vase and stood back with a sigh, hands clasped delicately in front of her.

"There we go. It makes it more cheery. Don't you think?"

John nodded and she titled her head smiling fondly at him, after a second she glanced to Sherlock her smile dropping, a finger coming out to point at him. "You, there is an awful smell coming from your kitchen. I dread to think what you have in there but I want it gone before John gets home. It's not good is it when you've been through an ordeal like that to come home to a mess."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose but he didn't argue, instead resolving to rope in a few favours he was owed to get the flat clean. So that night he slept for a few hours on the sofa, showering before the clean up began. The rag tag crew were watched carefully, ensuring nothing was actually stolen as they scrubbed and polished and hoovered the flat.

It smelt disturbingly fresh so the detective waited for the men to leave before rushing back to the hospital to find some more chemicals or body parts or anything to make it seem more like home again.

He was disappointed to find that not even flirting with Molly could get him any parts until the next week and that due to a spillage he would not be allowed in the labs either. He glared at the apologetic woman arms crossed in defiance. "You can't even slip me one single measly head?"

She sighed, hands on hips, oddly confident and dominant "No. Not one."

Sherlock titled his head, something was different about her. The detective sighed complete with a overdramatic head toss and glanced away from her, making eye contact with the NA from Johns' ward.

She smiled and waved at him jogging a little to reach the two people, genuine warmth in her eyes. "Mr Watson! I was told you might be down here. John is free to go once he finishes his paperwork, I don't know if you have a car or something..."

Her gaze fell on Molly whose eyes had taken on a strangely murderous light and she looked back at Sherlock licking her lips nervously. "I will be along in a moment."

She nodded and turned away glancing back over her shoulder at the clearly fuming brown haired woman. Sherlock looked down at her, ah that must be it. He had known about her 'crush' (as he had been informed it was the correct term) for a while, it was plainly obvious to see and he had found it useful on occasion.

However he did hold some modicum of respect for her, she was not as utterly dim as most people and so he had when feeling tired, particularly inspired or simply thankful, taken to complimenting her on her hairstyle or lipstick or new nail polish.

Simple words which seemed to bring her pleasure.

But now she was experiencing a very different emotion, jealousy. "Why did she call you Mr. Watson?"

Sherlock bared his teeth sucking a breath the air whistling in a sharp intake."The nurses seem to have gotten it into their heads that John and I are married." He finished it off with a slight almost causal shrug of the shoulders'.

Molly's own shoulders drooped in comparison, her anger dissipating. It appeared she had gone through every stage of grief in one, now settling on resolution. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know."

She smiled sadly at him and he looked away, down the hallway to the staircase that would lead him back to John. "Well you'd better go."

Sherlock looked back at her, it was awkward now and he blinked trying to work out the correct words. "You changed your hair." His brain stuttered _that_ probably wasn't it.

She blushed, a hand falling on the slick ponytail, fingers sliding through her hair. "Oh yeah..."

"It looks nice."

She smiled at him, face pink eyes alight. Ah normalcy. He had yet again unwittingly managed the correct social move. What an odd pattern.

With a curt nod he was off, long lean legs and steady footsteps that echoed around empty laminate floors, the sharp sting of heavy duty disinfectants welcome and familiar in Sherlock's nose. He smiled as he rounded the corner, buzzing into the ward and almost running to John's room. He strived now for the almost normal movements of his life.

John was sat on the bed wearing his (Sherlock's) favourite red sweater and a pair of blue jeans, feet not reaching the floor like a pre-pubescent boy on a paediatricians table. He was clearly waiting for the detective because he greeted him as such; sliding off the bed and picking up his black duffel bag (Mrs. Hudson had brought him a change of clothes no doubt).

He grinned and in silence they exited the ward, John waving goodbye to the nurses Sherlock merely acknowledging them with the twitch of his lips. The silence remained as they manoeuvred the hospitals winding hallways and staircases stepping outside to a bitterly cold wind and slight drizzle.

Sherlock hailed a cab and opened the door for John letting his companion slip in in front of him, a grateful smile his appreciated reward. "102 baker street please."

The cabbie bobbed his head and John stared at the detective. "John, you have clearly not been eating very well and although not directly I am responsible for your hospitalisation. Therefore we are going to the gourmet burger kitchen."

The doctor was either too tired or too shocked the reply simply closing his mouth and staring out of his window. Sherlock took this chance to observe him properly, his skin was slightly paler than normal but nowhere near that sickly gray, the memory of which sent the hot spike back down his spine.

His eyes were darkened by large bags, his lips appearing redder due to his pale complexion and he looks tired, so very tired. Sherlock thought for a moment perhaps pushing john to eat would be a bad idea however he knew that the doctor would not enjoy the hospital ready meal food trays and must be starving for something more to his tastes.

They rolled up outside and Sherlock reached over John to open the door for him, pausing just as his chest brushed against his colleagues.

What the hell was he doing?

John seemed to think the same thing, but didn't say anything instead raising one eyebrow in confusion. Luckily Sherlock is almost incapable of embarrassment and so he stared back gesturing with his hand that John should exit the vehicle.

The inside of the restaurant was decidedly modern, the pair seated in a booth on one wall. The fabric was suede and vibrant red, seats well padded. Sherlock bounced up and down experimentally and smiled to himself. A good bounce variable.

Ordering there food Sherlock chose the house special for both of them, winking at John. "Trust me. It is delicious."

John chuckled and he looked up catching his colleagues eye and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a very tan hand thrust in front of his face.

"Sherlock? Hi!"

He knew that voice, that _voice_...he hadn't heard it in years and years. Slowly turning his head his eyes landed on Jerry...Jeremy Gallows, a tall thin man not quite with the same grace as the detective but still striking in his movements, straight blonde hair that swooped down over one eye, dark brown eyes and a blinding Hollywood smile. Well tailored suit that spoke of old money as did the club tie he wore and the slightly nasal tone of his voice.

Jeremy his first and only furore into...and he was already interrupting, inching his hand closer to Sherlock's on the table, glancing from him to John and back, smile a little strained. Sherlock had forgotten to reply.

"Hello Jeremy."

"Oh please, you never called me Jeremy. Well not _all_ the time."

He smirked squinting down at the detective and John almost choked on his water having chosen that exact moment to take a sip. Jeremy's smug voice rang out and he leant down a little staring at John.

"Who is your friend?"

"John this is Jeremy, Jeremy doctor John Watson. My colleague."

"Colleague eh? Doesn't he just drive you mad?"

John just blinked at him, unsure smile on his lips. "I'm sorry I don't...Sherlock never mentioned you."

All eyes back on him and for once Sherlock shied away from the limelight. He didn't want to talk about that summer and defiantly didn't want Jeremy to talk about it. "Oh we go way back. His parents brought his family to summer at a cottage near my family's home."

"Oh that sounds...fun."

"It was dull."

Sherlock finally spoke up and Jeremy smiled at him all sharp pointed teeth and barely concealed anger. Well hidden to the untrained eye. "Well we had some fun didn't we brains."

He used the nickname, a word that had of a brief period of time made him feel special, wanted. Sherlock just smiled up at him. "Yes but that was a long time ago."

Jeremy didn't even try to hide the anger that statement caused and he bent low smiling sweetly at Sherlock and then John. "Well things like that are never really over, are they." He winked at the doctor and Sherlock snarled under his breath.

He stood back up and then with a almost jovial wave he was gone weaving between tales with the air of someone important (or at least thought they were).

The pair were silent until the meal arrived, John murmuring "That looks lovely." under his breath.

Sherlock glanced up, "What?" John stared at him for a second seeming to mull over his words before putting his knife and fork down.

"So, he was a friend of yours."

"I told you I don't have friends...didn't have friends." That earned him a slight smile and John looked across the room and back.

"What was that about anyway...you also said you don't have boyfriends?"

Sherlock's lips twitched and he considered what was he expected to do here. Did he tell John the unfortunate fable of Jeremy or did he lie or fob him off. John's knee bumped his under the table and he sniffed poking at his burger.

"He was not my boyfriend. He was an acquaintance with whom I happened to share a brief period of physical intimacy." John's mouth dropped open and Sherlock looked down. He was embarrassed again, bloody John asking him bloody questions.

"Oh."

"I don't understand why you are shocked... he made it obvious that we had engaged in some sort of sexual activity."

"I just didn't expect you to admit it."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

They were silent again and Sherlock gazed at John trying to decipher the glint in his eyes, the tense pull of his shoulders, the way the dim lights softly illuminated his face. It was not an unattractive sight even though he was obviously curious and confused.

"Was he your first...first..."

"Yes. "

"Oh."

Sherlock sighed taking a sip of his drink. It would seem that John was very interested in his previous experiences (he didn't think they counted as relationships.) something that sent a thrill down the detectives spine.

"He was kind to me." Sherlock kept his voice calm, quiet. He wasn't sure what tone exactly to use.

John nodded smiling at him, eyes a little wary. He in fact leant a little closer, close enough now for his aftershave to waft across the table, his warm brown eyes thrown into contrast with his pale skin. If asked to put a name to the warm sensation he felt Sherlock would say it was...comforting.

"He would ask me to deduce things about the other children in the park or in the village to see how much I could work out. It was child's play, the unaware are almost too easy to read. He was impressed and one day he kissed me. Naturally I wasn't sure how to react."

John hummed sympathetically. "He informed me that he found me attractive and it went from there."

"So... you _are_ gay then."

Sherlock frowned. "I suppose I am."

John swallowed his food choking and gulping down water. His face was bright red and Sherlock just stared impassively, waiting for his reply. "Oh right. That all fine then..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

John shook his head. "What do you mean you _suppose_? Should you know by now?"

"I told you. I consider myself married to my work. It's never been an issue."

John laughed in disbelief. Or at least that what he assumed the laugh meant. "So if he was nice to you and you have no...remaining feelings for him then why did you look like you wanted to rip his head off when he came over?"

Sherlock sighed. Nobody knew about Jeremy, not even Mycroft did he really want to tell John about how he had managed to mess up the only good thing in his childhood? He was silent for a while and eventually John just looked away, finishing his meal.

"Look, it doesn't matter. Sorry I asked."

Sherlock didn't reply he just blinked at his colleague, damn his lack of social skills damn it. There was a reason that any and all physical encounters with people were strictly one time affairs, there to satisfy his body's needs when and if he felt them.

Which he rarely did.

It was better that way, no messy emotional stuff for his brain to get muddled and jammed up with. But then...was this an emotional thing? With _John_? He wasn't sure whether the strange warm wobbly feeling in his stomach was friendship or something more serious than that.

"Not at all. Are you finished? I left my nicotine patches at the flat."

John smiled at him evidently pleased he hadn't somehow upset the detective and as they walked to the curb Sherlock hailing a cab with ease John seemed to stand just an inch closer than normal. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps not but it was certainly noticed. For a man with Sherlock's perceptions it was as thought he had gone from walking beside him to rubbing up against his arms.

They were quiet on the ride home, quiet on the way into the flat and Sherlock let John go ahead of him grinning when he heard the impressed gasp as he viewed the newly cleaned flat. He walked up behind him in the doorway leaning down slightly to speak quietly into his ear, the heat from the back of John's neck sending a hot spike of something up and down his spine.

"The homeless are surprisingly good at cleaning." John murmured his agreement and crossed the threshold placing his bag by the door and slapping his hands together on his way to make a cup of tea. Sherlock watched him go, noting the slight flush to his cheeks and the way he avoided looking at the taller man.

Sighing Sherlock walked to his chair and slumped in it almost hanging off the edge as he reached out for the remotes and flicked through the channels. He didn't want John in the other room he wanted him right here, his undivided attention just like in the restaurant. But then that's all he ever wanted from people.

He smiled when the doctor returned handing over his drink a soft smile on his face, eyes alight with warmth, Sherlock's favourite sweater making him look almost offensively harmless and comfortable (Oh how wrong that particular illusion was).

Sherlock reached out, fingers dragging over the soft woollen cuff and over the back of Johns' hand as he took the mug, smirking when he noticed John rubbing that area as he sat down.

They watched TV in silence apart from Sherlock's outraged outbursts, screaming and yelling when things got too dumb for him not to object. His mind wasn't really on the shows; it was focussed on that image of John. For the first time in his life he began to almost fantasise, muddled images of what it would be like to hug the smaller man in that jumper.

It would be warm, soft most likely and John would be closer to him than he ever had been before. It would certainly be interesting. For just a second he wondered if it would be like that one singular hug he had received from Jeremy, brief and cold, thin arms and fingers digging into his sides.

But then...how to instigate such an act? Does he simply ask for it? Or take what he suddenly desperately wants as though John was in fact an enormous nicotine hit and Sherlock was gasping. He glanced down at the doctor, he frowned. Well there was only one way to find out.

"John."

The doctor turned around raising an eyebrow "Mmm."

"How do I go about hugging somebody?"

John blinked shaking his head and shuffling in his seat so he was staring right at the detective. He squirmed internally, he hated that he needed to ask advice about these things when other (much more stupid) people just seemed to _know_.

"Well I suppose you just sort of...ask?"

"Right. John can I hug you?"

He doctor spluttered, a blush rising from his cheeks and spreading down past his neckline. He smiled, the frowned then smiled and Sherlock held back a frustrated groan through gritted teeth.

"Uh...okay then."

Okay then.

So...now what? He had hugged people before...well people had mostly hugged _him_. People who didn't know him very well, who assumed he knew what to do in that situation. When Mrs. Hudson had hugged him the first day John had come to the flat and it was...nice and comforting. But then, she was almost like the mother figure he never had. His own parents had been distant, regal and she was what as a child he assumed other parents would be like, all soft and caring.

He had only hugged someone he liked once and that was Jeremy and it was...weird and awkward. He didn't want it to be like that with John. He was broken from his cloud of worry by John's irritated voice.

"Are you going to hug me or what?" Sherlock looked up to find John standing above him arms outstretched a little. "Just considering all the variables."

"It's a hug not rocket science."

"For you at least."

John chuckled and Sherlock felt a bit better at it, getting to his feet in one swift elegant move. The TV chattered in the background and he could hear the soft patter of raindrops against the glass behind him, Johns steady breathing that wafted tea stained breath up in his face. He wrinkled his nose and smiled down at his colleague.

The doctor rolled his eyes and stepped forwards placing his arms gently around Sherlock's slim waist, and the detective hesitated before letting his own wrap about the strong shoulders below him. They weren't standing very closely, John leaning towards him slightly, his legs still planted further away.

That wasn't right, it wasn't enough and so he took a step forwards, putting their bodies flush together, arms tightening around his shoulders, John's hands digging in slightly, and arms tighter. It was certainly different to Jeremy's hug, even warmer than he had expected and he could feel from the sudden intake of breath that it wasn't what John expected either.

Sherlock smiled and bent his head slightly bringing his ear to press against the doctors. John sighed and he could feel the smile against his neck, the slightly citrus scent filling his nostrils and he tugged John up slightly so he could bury his nose in the soft wool jumper, closing his eyes. He felt warm and that squirmy liquid feeling pooled at the base of his spine.

The shorter man chuckled and it vibrated up through him sending warm chills up and down his spine. Sherlock abruptly let go, stepping away and crossing his arms a smile on his lips, he didn't want to scare the doctor away with his (rather impressive if he said so himself) continued reaction. John raised an amused eyebrow at him.

"Well, what experiment was that for?"

The detective licked his lips, frowning, ah yes the explanation. Shame he didn't have one really.

"An incomplete one."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: well I just couldn't help myself. Thanks again for all the reviews (:_

Sherlock swung the hammer down in a hail of blows that battered and bruised the body beneath him. He stepped back panting, swiping a hand over his sweating forehead, the bitter tang of blood coating his tongue. He had accidently bitten his tongue during his downswing.

He growled throwing the hammer down on the unit and scaring away Molly as she entered the room, letting out a frightened squeak before the door slammed shut behind her. He put his hands on his slim hips and let out a frustrated huff of breath. There was no denying the anger coursing through his veins.

He wanted it to be like before, when he could have John around and when the doctor wasn't around Sherlock would feel indifference. Now it was like a squirming sickening lurch in his stomach that he recognised as worry. Every other thought that crossed his mind flashed him images of Johns gray skin, the weak rattle of his lungs and it made him hate that he didn't know where John was, what he was doing. If he was _safe_.

He worried. How very bizarre.

He needn't have bothered because Johns irritating little habit didn't make an appearance until they were following a chain of break in murders, the pair chasing two masked figures down a council block staircase skidding around corners and out onto the terrace.

His veins were thrumming with energy, the thrill of the chase and he laughed freely into the open air, John gaping and looking at him like he was mad (A very familiar sight). Suddenly there was a shot of pain that radiated through his skull and everything went black.

He blinked through the fuzz watching in horror from the cold hard cement as Johns unconscious face was obscured by the slamming of a cheap car door. A 1991 golf GTI, one alloy tyre and three feet. Two Reeboks size 7 and a single Nike size 11.

And he was gone again. Kidnapped. Sherlock was alone, alone again and John was off in some hideous car with a bunch of murderers, no doubt hurtling through the streets of London.

But he wasn't alone, not at all and suddenly rough hands were squeezing his arms tightly, yanking him up and pushing him face first into a damp smelling car. His face colliding with the sweat soaked foam of an ancient well-used car, hands pulled roughly behind his back and he was hogtied, blue nylon rope digging into his wrists.

He kept silent, his eyes still blurry and he could only just make out the hideous tartan fabric of the seat, the arrogant tones of the kidnappers and the steady headache inducing pounding of some sort of music (although he would hasten to call it that) he couldn't see where they were going and when given the chance to see he had only a mere second before a black bag was pulled down over his face. He could hear muffled laughter and he was pushed and pulled over hard ground that felt like cement, dragged up a staircase that stank distinctly of urine and into what he presumed was a flat, the room swampy, his lungs protesting at being forced into such a mouldy unkempt area.

He sighed as they tied him to some sort of dining chair, hands bound behind his back, black bag still in place. He counted the different rates of breathing in the room. Three of them and a very slow rather weak rate that indicated John was here too. That sound made him straighten his shoulders, wriggling against his bonds. They were perfectly childish, the men had clearly never taken hostages before, he could slip out of these bonds without much trouble.

He'd have to wait of course; he wouldn't be able to take on three of them at once, especially as they were clearly carrying knives. So he sat in silence noting the change in the tension in the room when a door nearby squeaked open and heavy footsteps announced the arrival of someone who was clearly the boss. Sherlock sighed; fighting against his bodies desire to blink at the blinding light as the bag was ripped off his head.

He was sat in a bright airy room, most of the windows having been smashed, and from his position he could see John just a few feet away, also tied to a chair a bag over his head and judging from the loll of his head, still unconscious. Behind him a large window was showing an aerial view of south London, a flock of seagulls in the distance, the cold wind whistling through sending the various bits of newspaper and assorted rubbish fluttering across the room.

He turned his gaze to the man slightly to the left of him. A surprisingly short wiry chav, cheap tracksuit socks pulled up to cover the cuffs, expensive Nike shoes, and a heavy gold chain that glinted as he leant forward hands on his knees, bringing his face closer to the detective. His head was shaved, eyes a cold grey, small scar under his left eye, wrinkled forehead, angular face and snarling sneering lips wrapped around pointed teeth. He spoke with a rough cocky tone that seemed to set the other men on edge.

"Ello ello ello, who do we have here then?"

Sherlock sniffed flicking the hair from his eyes. Keeping silent. He wanted to know what their plans were first. The man licked his lips, anger flaring in his eyes when Sherlock didn't answer and he leant even closer, his face mere inches away, a hand grabbing roughly at the detectives hair. He smelt of stale ash and cheap aftershave, a wave of need washing over Sherlock. It was shame he was being held hostage, he was gasping for a fag.

"I said, who the fuck are you?"

"Jonathan Simmons."

The man laughed, looking at him and then laughing again. He pulled out a knife and walked over to John, Sherlock fighting to keep the panic from his eyes. The head chav pulled Johns arm up and dragged the knife very gently over his skin leaving a thin pink trail. He smirked at Sherlock "Want to try that again?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Good boy!" he grinned manically at Sherlock and tilted his head at John and then his eyes flickered over the other men in the room, sharp smile not flickering for a second. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" They glanced amongst themselves filing quickly out of the room leaving just the boss and the detective staring at each other. His grin faded and he leant down bouncing on his heels, eyes hardening, tongue sweeping over thin lips.

"So you know my name, it's only polite for you to tell me yours"

The man smirked. "I like you. You got balls." He stood up again and walked in a circle so he was stood behind John, hands on the back of his chair. "My name is Ares." Sherlock chuckled earning himself a glare.

"The Greek god of war. How very appropriate."

"Yeah that's why they gave it to me you see, because to them... to them I _am_ a god." He gestured to the door with the large hunter's knife, a smug grin on his face, eyes still cold.

"So that is why they did it. They respect you so much that you can order them to kill."

"You are a clever guy. You figured that out then. A credit to the force this one."

"I am not a policeman. I am a consulting detective thank you very much."

"Oh...and who is this? Your _boyfriend_?"

"Not quite. He is my colleague."

Ares laughed, the knife bouncing in his hand, so close to Johns face. Sherlock wriggled in his seat fixing the chav with a stare, if he so much as touched John again he wasn't sure what he would do. Oh how very strange, he had never felt rage like this before. Sherlock let out a shivery breath as it coursed through his veins making him feel powerful, unhinged.

"A unique MO, you break into a house gather the family or people within and then one by one order your men to beat them, burn them, whatever takes your fancy. But the killing, that is yours alone isn't it? The men under your command are thugs, brutes, but you; you are much more than that, a sadist, a _psychopath_."

Ares snarled and brought the knife down grabbing Johns arm again and dragging the knife so slowly over the skin, almost a caress that drew beads of blood dotting up Johns arm and he murmured, shifting in his seat his breathing patterns changing as he woke up. Sherlock sucked in a breath struggling more than he'd like to to keep his voice even, if from anger or relief that he had woken up.

"John. We have been kidnapped."

John hummed under his breath moving against his bonds, his shoulders slumping, defeated. "Oh." He sounded practically bored.

Sherlock couldn't have been more proud. And relieved, but then John didn't need to know that.

Ares sighed stepping between the two men holding the knife to Sherlock's neck and twisting a little, the action making a nick that oozed a thin stream down his pale neck. He swallowed, not even flinching at the sharp prick of pain; he had gotten used to worse. Ares smiled moving the knife down and up against his skin, dragging it slowly along his jaw.

Suddenly the door burst open and a larger heavier man glanced at the men, Ares eyes flicking up an ugly snarl still on his face. The man seemed to hesitate, getting Ares angry clearly scared him and when he spoke it was almost soft. His large dumb eyes wide and pleading, glancing furtively behind him, anywhere that wasn't his boss's eyes.

"We have a problem. Tony is here."

The short man sighed and glanced down to the detective, a mean smirk gracing his lips, the cold metal of the knife moving away, being slipped into the short mans sock. His smile was wiped from his face as he stood, replaced with an angry scowl and he reached out and punched Sherlock square on the jaw sending waves of pain ricocheting around his skull.

"Shame. I was just getting started. You can finish them off, but not too much. I wanna have a go on them later, especially this one." He smirked at the detective and snorted, spitting on the floor at Sherlock's feet.

The man at the door nodded and gestured with his hand for two other guys to follow him in as Ares strutted out of the door. Sherlock glanced up sighing as he was surrounded. The largest man came up to him and laughed, two smaller men leaning around him with wolfish grins. The last thing he saw was a massive fist, the word FUCK tattooed crudely on enormous knuckles and two sovereign rings glinting in the falling lights before the world went black again.

He woke up again sometime in the small hours, the bitter smell of alcohol and smoke drifting from the other room, the tinny noise of a TV and grunted words amongst the occupants. His face hurt, his brain whirring into action, deciding before he even had a chance to think it through that he needed to text someone. He didn't even glance up, concentrating on his task.

Another mistake of his captors, they didn't check his pockets. He wriggled his wrists slowly but surely working his hands from his bonds and digging in his pocket, pausing when he heard a grunted order and footsteps begin heaving towards the thin door separating him from the kidnappers.

He pulled out the phone and sent a single text before the footsteps could reach him, slumping back on his seat, eyes sliding shut and grasping the bonds tightly as though he was still trapped. The door opened and he could feel the gaze of the man on the back of his head. It was a tense moment while he tried to keep his breathing even, hoping that John didn't wake up again.

He didn't and after a minute the door squeaked shut leaving the detective and his colleague alone again. Letting go of his bonds he finally looked up at John, sucking in a haggard breath, his face was blue and purple eyes swollen closed, cuts seeping blood out over his shirt.

His heart ached in his chest and he got to his feet, his vision greying around the edges, the world tipping to the side, his legs felt weak wobbly and as heavy as lead. He dragged himself over , panting with the effort as he fumbled with the nylon wire, yanking it roughly from John's hands, pulling on his arm, his attempt at feeling for a pulse just subsiding into caressing Johns neck as soon as he established that he was alive, he dragged him slowly off the chair and on top of the detective. He wrapped his arms around his colleague's shoulders, shaking him a little.

"John. John wake up."

His voice was hoarse, weak and he could suddenly feel the cold, wrapping around him making his bones quake. As he slipped back into unconsciousness he was vaguely aware of a loud thumping noise in the other room, the sound of heavy footsteps and shouting men distant, unearthly.

The final time he awoke he blinked blearily into the all too bright lights letting out a low groan. "Oh, you're awake."

Mycroft. God dammit. Mycroft was here.

"Obviously." His eyes focussed on the white tiled ceiling, the antiseptic tang hitting him like a brick wall and he retched. _Hospitals_. Excellent when he had experiments to do but the idea of lying in a bed, being** forced** to lie in some bloody bed for hours and hours on end, to do nothing for days.

It made his head hurt and he winced pushing himself up so he was sitting in the bed.

He reached down to pull at his IV stopping when he realised he had what amounted to socks strapped over his hands. Mycroft smirked in the corner, wearing a pair of tartan trousers, a sweater vest and a pink polo shirt. A flat cap topping off the ensemble. He had obviously interrupted some sort of golf match.

"That is to stop you pulling your IV out."

Sherlock snarled and went to get off the bed, tipping his legs over the side and standing, only to find that his ankle was cuffed by a chain to the bed.

"And_ that_ is to stop you going walkabout. I made the nurses fully aware of your aversion to healthcare so don't think you will get any sympathy from them."

Blast.

"Where am I?"

"You know full well where you are."

"That private hospital of yours?"

Mycroft smiled and Sherlock slumped back into his bed, glancing around the room. It was quite large containing his bed, the chair Mycroft was sitting in and a small side unit. He turned looking up at his stand, examining the bags.

"No painkillers."

"Well after your..._problems_ I assumed you wouldn't want narcotics."

Sherlock scowled, so he didn't even get the one thing that made situations like this bearable. **Great**. Talking about bearable, where was his colleague..."Where is John?"

"If you are in pain then I am sure the nurses can give you something..._weaker_."

"Mycroft. Where is John? "

"I must admit Sherlock. You surprised me, the last thing I would expect is you asking me for help."

"I only had time to send one text. If Lestrade had access to anything like your gadgets I'd have text him."

"Well you are welcome."

He rustled the pages of his paper and folded it, standing gracefully. His usual sly smile slipping off his face a little as he reached for the door handle. "I do wish you'd get some rest. What would mummy say if she saw you like this?"

Sherlock glared at him and watched the door slam shut behind his brother, instantly trying to pull the stupid sock things off, ripping at the bandages with his teeth. To his disgust they were bound multiple times and rather tightly, the dry ache in his skull making him frown. Where the hell was John?

He was exhausted, his muscles still heavy and tight, the skin on his face pulled taut over swelling flesh, skin dry from chemical cleansing. He smelt like alcohol, and sweat and his bed sheets were stiff and scratchy on the back of his neck. He was miserable. He wanted to be back at the flat, talking through his latest case with a cup of John's finest in his hand and the doctors undivided attention. His shining eyes and they way he said brilliant like he actually believed it. Even after all this time, surprised by Sherlock's deductions.

That warmth and comfort from simply having him around. It was odd to imagine his life without the constant presence of John, it would be like losing his favourite coat, leaving him cold and shivering, exposed. That was how he felt now, throwing his head back against the pillow in frustration as he yet again failed to release himself from his bonds, a tear squeezed out from under an eyelid and trickling down his cheek.

He, the worlds only consulting detective was lying in a anonymous hospital bed, worried, confused and wanting nothing more than to be back in the flat, at home with Johns arms around him again.

What had the doctor **done** to him! He never ever got this sentimental about anything (Bar his skull of course. But what he and that skull shared was special.) And he especially never _longed_ for people. Never. Was it possible that for the first time Sherlock Holmes had actually found someone that he cared for...maybe even loved?

He felt broken, confused and so curled over on himself, ignoring the sharp pull on his shoulder, the dark red lines up and down his arms where the thugs had cut him. Why wouldn't Mycroft tell him where John was? Had they killed him? A shiver down his spine sent his stomach turning and he sniffed clutching at his chest, scrabbling on his collarbone.

He glanced upwards eye catching on his mobile on the side unit. He reached for it like a life line typing in Johns numbers and clutching it to his head. It rang and rang and rang but he got no reply. So what if he wasn't with his phone... maybe he was asleep on the sofa at home or in a hospital bed?

He ignored the voice in his head whispering the words 'or in the morgue'.

John was alive.

There was no evidence he wasn't beside a pessimistic heart beating in a bitter chest. If he was alive then where the hell was he! He pulled up the number typing out a quick text.

**Are you alive? SH**.

Pressing send he sniffed, clutching the phone to his chest. Just waiting for it to ring, or buzz with the sound of an incoming text, the signal that John was still alive and Sherlock still had the option of going back to his life.

But it didn't come.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Okay this one is a bit short but I promise there will be another new one soon. I hope that my sentences are a bit more fluid in this chapter. Please review and tell me if you think I've improved at all (:_

Sherlock woke up to a cooing nurse. She knocked on his door and bustled into the room holding a tray full of lumpy grey porridge and two sides of stiff butter less toast. Sherlock blinked trying to hide the disgust he felt, turning up his nose at the smell. She placed the plastic implement down and sighed, hands on her (rather large) hips.

"I just need to change that."

She turned sharply on her heel and left the room leaving Sherlock mere minutes to compile the framework of a plan. He waited until she returned and leant over him, her focus on removing and exchanging the IV bags. He reached out a hand, and using a well practiced move, plucked a simple biro from her pocket, nimble fingers sliding it amongst his bandages so she wouldn't find it on him.

Stepping back the nurse smiled. "There, much better. Eat up; Mr. Holmes called to say he would be visiting later. That'll be nice won't it?"

She titled her head and grinned at him. Sherlock just blinked at her and so she rolled her eyes, bustling out of the room with the same frantic energy she had brought with her.

Waiting until night fell again was awful, Mycroft's brief appearance only served to aggravate him more. He was still refusing to even acknowledge Sherlock's attempts to gain information on John and spent most of his visit in silence staring at his brother with that look on his face again.

When the shift changed Sherlock nodded goodbye to the nurse who had been in to see him that day, making sure to keep his face solemn and angry as though he was frustrated at his inability to escape. (An easy task since that was exactly how he felt. All the better for them to report back to Mycroft.) Inside however he was buzzing with a heady mix of excitement, frustration and an empty ache in his chest that seemed to drive his every motion.

It was his all consuming thought now. He had to find John, had to know for definite he was alive. (To waste the time during the day he had deduced a possible explanation for his brothers' strange attitude. John was here, somewhere in the hospital and in an effort to keep Sherlock in bed and at the beck and call of the doctors and nurses his brother was trying to avoid mentioning his colleague.)

He listened intently for the wards normal daytime hustle and bustle to calm to a quiet echoing shout or the distant beat of heeled shoes on lino before beginning to work his plan. He rubbed furiously at one of his socks, focussed intently on his task until the pale skin of his wrist was revealed between the bandages and the sock.

He grinned and made quick work with his teeth, pulling the fabric clear off his hand. He wriggled his fingers, the cool air icy on his sweat soaked palm. Scrabbling at his other bandage, long pale fingers pulled the pen out, placing it between his teeth as he took off the other sock. When he was done the detective laid back, a wave of exhaustion swarming over him, his limbs heavy head pulsing with a throb of pain.

His hands felt jittery, his vision swam and his face ached. How unfortunate. Glancing sideways at his side unit he glared at a forgotten tray, limp sandwiches piled up next to a bag containing strips of carrot and a bottle of water. He had refused to eat earlier, his worry affecting his already rather limited appetite. He pulled the tray towards himself chewing slowly on the bland food, it was tasteless and smelt strongly of the cheap plastic it ad been wrapped in. (Rather disappointing for a private company.)

His stomach felt starched, heavy and he placed a hand on his swollen stomach, moaning into the night air. His eyelids felt heavy and so he grunted rolling onto his side, arms wrapped around his waist. He had slept less than three hours the night before and now, in the middle of his escape attempt, his sleep deprivation chose to sneak up on him. (Mycroft's fault. Somehow.)

He awoke four hours later. His plan for an early-hour escape was ruined, it was almost eight and the corridors would be full. He sighed, there was nothing he could do about it and so he shuffled up the bed, rubbing his eyes and exhaling with relief that the nurses had not found him and reapplied the socks.

Now it was the difficult part. His ankle restraint was chained to the right side of the end of his bed by a typical circular coil. It was large and heavy and seemed similar to the rings used on sets of keys to allow the easy removal and addition of keyrings or keys.

He smirked, just a few steps away from finding out where John was, how silly of Mycroft to assume that simply not mentioning him would make the detective forget. He had clearly not realised how simply important John was.

Wrapping the pen in his sheets he slammed it between his hands until he heard a sharp crack. Rolling the sheets down he licked his lips, the pen had broken into a few shards of plastic the perfect dimensions to use as supports. He scooted down the bed clasping his crudely fashioned implements tightly and using the thin sticks he slid them under the edge of the coil and twisted it, forcing the tight loop apart.

He heard a cough from the hallway and froze, but there was no further movement and he yanked at his chain releasing himself from the bed. The cuff was still attached to his leg, only releasable by a padlock (Which he was almost certain only Mycroft had the key to) but that was immaterial now, he could walk like this, he could run like this. Removing it was a future concern.

He tore the IV from his arm, sliding off the bed and landing heavily on the shockingly cold floor. The detective shuddered, wavering on wobbly legs, his head swimming. (He still would not admit to himself that his health was anything less than perfect so clearly this was just the adrenaline.) After a moment Sherlock took a deep breath and hurried to the door, pulling it open slowly and peering around the doorframe.

There was one woman on the nurses' station, talking quietly on the phone. Sherlock gritted his teeth and slipped out, crouching behind a large rolling cage containing bedding. It smelt strongly of disinfectant and he wrinkled his nose peering around it, waiting patiently (kind of) for her to finish her call.

After a few minutes of typing on the computer, she got up and walked away, entering a room further down the corridor. This was his chance and he took it, running as fast as he could to the station and pulling up the hospitals records on the computer. After a couple of minutes work he had managed to crack through the hospitals record security system (Embarrassingly easy. He decided to mention to Mycroft exactly how short a time it took him) and was searching for any patient by the name of John Watson.

He peered at record after record letting out a triumphant "Yes!" when he found him. Room 204. Sherlock laughed and clicked off the page, managing to scoot into a nearby disabled toilet when the echoing footsteps of the nurse returned. He inched out around the doorframe, eyes glues to the back of her head as he inched his way to the door of the ward, buzzing himself out and running free.

He ran down the hall, skidding around corners and flying up staircases ignoring the shrieks and yells of patients, doctors and visitors as he barrelled past. He frowned, eyes flickering from door to door reading the black plastic numbers in haste. Finally he found what he was looking for and he slid sideways on his heels, staring in through the reinforced glass window.

John was sat up in bed, talking to someone, his face a mess of blue and purple, angry red marks from cuts and a white pad over one eye(clearly they'd cut his swollen eye open to relieve the pressure) his hands were clasped in front of himself and Sherlock could just about hear his soft tones through the heavy wooden door.

He grinned, yanking it open and running into the room, pausing in the doorway his grin faded when he saw Sarah blinking back up at him. She was sat primly on the wingback leather chair in the corner, hair up in a ponytail, face free of makeup. She looked politely surprised, but not happy to see him. In fact (much to Sherlock's pleasure) she looked like she wasn't happy to see John either, glancing from the doctor to the detective.

Sherlock turned to his friend and smiled, John was staring at him hands clenched slightly in the sheets, eyebrows raised in surprise. The detective coughed awkwardly and placed his hands behind his back, the thought that he was wearing just a hospital robe, tied unnervingly loosely behind his back struck him and he clasped the thin fabric between finger and thumb to keep it together. (It also crossed his mind that John was dressed the same way although he couldn't quite understand why that thought got stuck in his mind going round and round and round.)

"Sherlock?"

"John! I'm glad to see you are alive."

"Um...thanks. I'm glad you're alive too."

Sherlock walked to his side glancing up to Sarah and back down again, concentrating on his companions warm brown eye. He felt better now, less manic although his heart still thundered in his chest. (Exertion. Probably)

"Why didn't you answer my text?"

John frowned and looked to his...girlfriend? (Sherlock did not know exactly what the status of their relationship was) She blushed and rummaged around in her bag pulling out the phone and holding it out to John. Sherlock reached out to grab it before the doctor could get his hands on it but he was too slow. The detective licked his lips trying to take the focus off the mobile in the hopes he could take it back, hopefully before John could see the numerous pleading (Pathetic.) texts from the night before.

"Oh. Is there a reason you didn't give it to him?"

She licked her lips glancing at where Sherlock's hand was placed on the bed, next to John's leg and he frowned. She fixed him with a innocent smile that didn't quite ring true. "Well, Mr. Holmes told us that John should rest. I didn't want to bother him with some random text..."

Sherlock glared at her and to his surprise so did John. "I think I should be the one to decide what would bother me." He shook his scruffy blonde head and began scrolling through the texts, his expression unreadable.

Sherlock looked away, it _was_ difficult to embarrass the detective, but not impossible.

"Sherlock... I'm sorry. If I'd...known I would have text back."

He looked back; the doctor was looking at him like he was a peach, so easily bruised. "It's quite alright." The doctor smiled and gave him a once over, his eyes sticking to the cuff hanging off his ankle.

"What's that?"

"It's a cuff. I think it was supposed to keep me in that infernal bed."

John laughed and Sherlock felt his stomach flutter, this was what he had been craving. The doctor's undivided attention. "Oh, Mycroft I assume."

"Yes, from what I've heard here I have deduced that in an effort to allow you to recover he decided that my presence was not beneficial."

John laughed shaking his head."I can't imagine why." Their quiet banter was interrupted by the polite cough of Sarah, her eyes fixed on John.

"I'd better go then..." He blushed looked back at her, still smiling although less brightly. (Sherlock gleefully noted)

"Oh. Okay then. I'll see you when I get out."

She nodded and leant towards him for a kiss, he pecked her lips only briefly and she pulled back, lips tight, eyes again bouncing between detective and doctor. As soon as she was up from the chair Sherlock rounded the bed and took her place, grinning across at John as he said goodbye. The door closed with a slam and John turned to his friend, the grin growing back on his face.

"You look like crap."

"I think it suits me."

John shook his head chuckling, "Not even you can pull off a black eye and what looks like the imprint of a sovereign in their cheeks." (He _could_.)

Sherlock shrugged leaning back in his seat. "It's your fault really. You and your stupid habit."

"What are you talking about!"

"What do you mean what am I talking about? I'm talking about your rather disconcerting habit of getting yourself kidnapped."

John just stared at him, mouth hanging open. "You must have noticed... out of the 24 cases you have been involved in, you have been kidnapped 11 times. That is more than coincidence but less than some sort of addiction, therefore it is a habit."

John's mouth shut with snap and he rubbed a hand over his face. "You're mad, what kind of screwed up logic would... It is not a _habit_; it is a consequence of spending my time around a sociopath with a death wish."

"Call it what you will, I do wish you'd stop. You know I hate hospitals."

John rolled his eyes the smile not leaving his face despite his attempt to look angry. "Well I'm sorry. I'll do my best in future not to get jumped by a group of marauding chavs."

"Good. Thank you."

They shared a quiet moment, eyes locked onto each other. The detective stomach flipped and he licked his lips, looking away for a second and then back, taking in Johns comforting (battered and bruised but still...) features the warmth in his eyes ever present.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Just so you know Lestrade has already been in. He said he received an anonymous tip as to the gang's location and when he arrived with the SWAT team a private ambulance was already waiting outside for us. What about you, have you been eating? Sleeping?"

Sherlock sighed and slumped back in his seat. "I'm fine. I am also perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

John quirked is head to the side. "If you say so."

It took Mycroft's people most of the morning to realise he had relocated and the detectives brother made an appearance at midday. He sidled into the room, hands clasped behind his back an odd grin (much like a grimace) gracing his features.

"Sherlock. I do wish you'd have stayed in bed."

Sherlock wriggled in his chair, not looking away from the TV in the corner of John's room. "I am perfectly fine here."

"As I can see."

Sherlock wasn't looking so he missed the smirk as Mycroft's eyes surveyed his comfortable position, chair pulled closer to the bed, hand buried in a bag of chocolate on the doctors lap. John was holding a crossword book, pen between his lips although from what Mycroft could see most of the words had already been filled in by Sherlock. The sheets were pulled up around the doctors waist and Sherlock appeared to be wearing a rather large red jumper, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

It was all very domestic, Sherlock pulling a chocolate out, glancing at it and sniffing in derision at it before leaning his hand back in the doctor's direction. "Blue. I don't like blue."

John hummed and took it gently from his hand, placing it in his own mouth. Sherlock reached for the bag again but the doctor slapped his hand and looked down rifling through the bag himself to pull out three yellow chocolates.

"There. Yellow."

Sherlock tipped his head back and the doctor sighed dropping them into his open mouth. His brother winced as Sherlock crunched loudly on his snack, finally turning to his sibling as though he had forgotten he was there.

"Why are you still here? I'm fine. John is fine. If you are not going to sign my release papers you might as well go away."

Ah yes, apparently to be released from the hospital Sherlock need both Lestrade and Mycroft signatures. It unfortunately meant he would have to stay until the next day when his blood test results came back and they could rule out any bacterial infections caused by the insanitary condition of the flat they'd been held in.

Mycroft sniffed tilting his head. "Very well. Goodbye John. Good _bye_ Sherlock."

Sherlock watched him go and then turned to John, his words dying in his throat. The doctor was sucking on the end of his pen, a slight frown on his face. There was tug deep in his chest and he just stared, forgetting what he had been intending to say (No doubt something witty and interesting.)

John, even now was..._ interesting_ to look at. His face held a strange fascination for the detective, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He had thought about it many times, John had a perfectly ordinary face, no scars, tattoos or marks. Just soft welcoming eyes, a wide honest smile and fascinating ability to convey exactly what he was thinking with a simple twitch of his lips. John rolled the pen from one corner of his mouth to the other and let out a soft sigh and Sherlock had a sudden feeling of clarity.

He found John _attractive_.

"What is the name for the scientific study of birds? Eleven letters."

Sherlock shook his head blinking and the doctor turned to him smiling a little, his eyes confused.

"Sherlock?"

"Ornithology."

"Oh...thank you."

He looked back down to his crossword writing the letters out quickly, confident that the detective was right. Sherlock turned away sharply, a blush creeping up his neck as he stared blindly at the TV. It was... _unnerving_ to realise that what he felt for John was attraction. It did explain much of what he experienced when around the man, and he remembered that this was what he had felt for Jeremy. (Although it was more childish admiration than attraction. That and sheer gratitude that Jeremy had even thought to speak to him where most kids either ignored him completely or bullied him relentlessly)

It also made things more complicated. He would have to tell the doctor eventually, but for now he could wait and simply explore the idea that perhaps John could (or does) hold similar feelings for him. That thought sent a warm thrill running up his spine and he smiled glancing sideways at the fiercely focussed man, now biting the skin of his thumb and mumbling to himself.

There was always the possibility that John would be repulsed by the idea of Sherlock as a romantic partner. It would certainly disrupt their comfortable routine if he did tell John and was rejected. He liked their routine, the fact that right now he was wearing Johns favourite (Sherlock's favourite. He realised now of course that the reason for this was that it looked particularly good on the shorter man) jumper, surrounded by his scent and he didn't even have to ask.

John had seen him shivering slightly as he watched Jeremy Kyla and had reached over the edge of his bed handing the item over without a word, just a forceful push of his hand against the detectives thin shoulder.

John _cared_ and right now that was enough for him.

He could wait.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Okay guys new chapter here (: The next one should be along soon._

They spent most of the day in the comfortable position that Mycroft had found them in. Sherlock picked at the chips on John's plate when the nurses brought them their dinner that evening, ignoring his own cheap plastic tray in favour of the doctors. (Eating his own food just wasn't the same. Plus John didn't seem to mind.)

It wasn't until nightfall that it became uncomfortable (although he would never admit that) and he rolled the jumpers sleeves down, wrapping his arms around himself as he curled up in the chair. John had turned the TV off an hour ago and had proceeded to roll over, his back facing the detective who analysed his breathing, slow and regular, indicating he was asleep.

Sherlock spent the time staring at the back of his head, counting the intake of breaths and trying in vain not to think about how soft and strangely attractive the skin on John's neck was. He crossed his arms, partly to try and gain some modicum of heat and partly to stop himself from finding out for real what It was like.

Suddenly the doctor rolled to face him and the detective quickly shut his eyes, feigning sleep. He heard John sigh and then there was a rustle and a warm hand landed on his arm.

"Sherlock? Sherlock."

He opened his eyes finding them not a foot away from Johns face. He glanced down to his plump mouth and then back up to his eyes trying to decipher his expression (and damning his lack of social knowledge again.) the hand still distractingly heated on his arm.

The doctor sat back and Sherlock exhaled in relief, swinging his legs around so he was sat correctly in the chair, staring at his colleagues slightly pink face.

"You must be freezing."

"I'm fine."

"Let me see your hands."

Sherlock sighed, he did miss the warmth from Johns palm on his arm but he didn't want to seem... weak. He glanced to his colleague and John raised an eyebrow so Sherlock moved his hands from under his armpits, they were almost blue with the cold and when the doctors own slightly rough warm palms abruptly closed around them he flinched. (Just a little.) The hands stayed there for a minute, rubbing in a gentle circle and a shiver ran up and down the taller mans spine, his skin heating up at the contact.

John shook his head removing his hands and scooting over. "Get in the bed."

Sherlock froze, he wasn't sure if this was normal or not. But then, if John was suggesting it... "I'm fine." Okay, so he was a little frightened of ruining things already, no matter how much he suddenly really _really_ wanted to lie down next to John he didn't want to do it and then lose him.

"No you're not. You won't go back to your own bed and you are too proud to ask the nurses for a blanket so I'm going to do you a favour and let you sleep in the bed with me."

He only hesitated for a second, after all John did present a logical and well reasoned argument, he couldn't argue with it. So instead he stood, fingers buried in the fabric at the neck of his (Johns) jumper as he took the short step toward the bed, climbing up and sliding under the sheets quickly as though the invitation would be revoked if he took too long.

It was warm in here, his hands and feet stinging with the sudden change in temperature. Since the advent of his creation Sherlock had never really had to deal with as many strange new social experiences as he had with John and this was probably the strangest. He wriggled, trying to get comfortable as he was surrounded by the smell of Johns hair on the pillow, the warmth of his skin already having heated the sheets. It was..._nice_, but he felt like there should be more, more contact, more heat, more **John**. He wondered what it would be like to hug John whilst lying down, certainly the position made it much less likely that his colleague would agree if asked for a hug. Blinking up at the dark ceiling he licked his lips. Maybe he wouldn't say no?

"Thank you."

Okay, so he chickened out. John sighed next to him, wriggling his toes and moving his hands. "It's not a problem."

"Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

They were both silent for a while, the detective thinking over their positions in the bed, wondering what would happen come morning.

"By the way, I want my jumper back."

"Not a chance."

The bed shook slightly with the doctor's chuckles and Sherlock grinned, letting his eyes slide shut.

The next morning he was woken by the squeaking of the bed as John wriggled nearby. He could hear soft voices and it appeared John was arguing with Lestrade. "All I'm saying is you should be careful. Just because he says he is married to his work that doesn't mean he can't have feelings for you."

"He doesn't have feelings for me."

"Yeah _you_ think that but he has never acted like this before. You don't know do you, I have been dealing with him for six years now and this is the first time I've ever seen him worried about anybody."

"Look, we are just friends. I am going out with Sarah. That is it."

"His brother seems to think otherwise."

"Well what Mycroft thinks is wrong, I don't...I'm not gay."

"I never said you were. Although, you haven't denied that you do find him attractive have you."

"I am going out with Sarah."

"And I'm very happy for you but that doesn't have any bearing on whether you fancy him or not. Don't just dismiss this bizarre thing you two have. For all you know it could be the best thing to ever happen to you."

John let out a frustrated huff of breath and sat down on the bed, landing on Sherlock's ankle. The detective grunted and blinked his eyes open as though it was that action which had woken him. He gazed down the bed frowning, trying to keep that expression on his face when he spotted John, quickly looking away. Lestrade was stood in the doorway hands on his hips a grin growing on his face. He was wearing that hideous grey coat he seemed to favour and he looked from John to Sherlock and back with a smile that was almost gleeful.

Jon was sat on the bed, topless. It took the detective almost a full second to register that fact (he had just woken up, so his mind was not at full capacity yet.) and he blinked at his colleague. Johns torso was toned but not overly muscular, the scar from his bullet wound a pale pink circle with several jagged lines spreading out down his chest and over his sternum to his back.

It was not an unwelcome sight and Sherlock felt his face heat up, scooting backwards so he was sitting further up the bed, trying to keep his shock and the strange smile that bubbled up from below his stomach from showing on his face. John was clearly not ashamed of his body (probably stemming from sharing his living spaces with many other men during his tour of duty.) and was now staring back at the detective a little oddly.

"Sorry, I forgot your feet were there."

"It's alright. What is he doing here?" he nodded his head to Lestrade and then fixed the DI with a pointed glare. Lestrade sighed, rolling his eyes.

"If you remember I have to sign your paperwork to get you released. Also your blood tests came back and you are both clean. _Surprisingly_." He raised an eyebrow smirking and the detective rolled his eyes, plucking at his (Johns) jumper. He knew it would be, he had been clean for years now and yet the stigma never really went away.

"So you are going to sign the papers?" John stood up and pulled a t-shirt over his head, smoothing the fabric down and tilting his head at the DI.

The older man sighed reaching into his jacket and pulling the slightly crumpled papers from his inside pocket. "Already did it. Do you two need a lift?"

It turned out that Lestrade had brought a change of clothes for both men having gone to check on Mrs. Hudson and to keep her up to date. He had brought Sherlock a purple shirt and a pair of trousers wrapped in a plastic bag, thrust unceremoniously into his hands with the order 'hurry the hell up I'm on a meter'.

He changed in the bathroom, scrubbing his face in the small sink and running his hands through his hair. There was a loud bang on the door and he rolled his eyes changing quickly and paused, holding the red jumper in his hands staring at himself in the mirror.

It still smelt of John, and was almost obscenely soft in his hands. Too irresistible to bare.

Sighing he pulled it up and over his head, fiddling with the collar and deciding that in fact, it suited him very well. He smiled and picked up the bag with his dirty clothes inside, yanking the door open just as John was about to knock causing the doctors fist to fall and land on his chest, fingers splaying out.

Both men stared at each other for a second before John removed his hands, shoving it in his pocket and turning away. "Come on. Lestrade's gone downstairs already."

The journey home was quiet, John was avoiding looking at him for some reason and Sherlock decided that what he needed was a hug (From what he had seen from TV a hug could cure any and all problems in a relationship. Not that they were in a relationship.). But he couldn't ask in front of Lestrade, the man would be insufferable, so he waited.

Glancing sideways he got a good look at John's profile, the warm fizzle at the base of his spine only growing as he stared. He desperately wanted to touch John and sighed rubbing a hand through his hair in frustration. A second later he let his hand fall close to where the doctors own palm lay on the seat. He looked away and after a moment he could've sworn Johns hand inched slightly closer, the slight warmth from his skin now reaching Sherlock. He couldn't stop the smug grin growing on his face and so stared out of his window.

Perhaps he had a chance after all.

When they reached the flat Sherlock began to feel what he assumed was 'nervous'. His hands began to shake again and his stomach did that strange swooping sensation when he reached across the doctor to open the door for him, chests brushing, John's breath on his face. He wasn't sure why he had picked up this social tic but the doctor didn't mention it and it _was_ rather nice so he didn't either.

John waved a hand to Lestrade and the DI drove off leaving the two men stood in silence on the pavement. Sherlock sighed burying his hands in his pockets and skipping up to the door, using his key to get inside. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be out and he flew up the staircase, careful not to trip. Right now he both wanted to stay very close to his colleague whilst simultaneously being somewhere where he didn't have to feel so jittery in his own skin.

The flat was exactly as they had left it and he smiled throwing his coat across the sofa and strutting to his chair bouncing down on it. John entered a few minutes later, sighing at the detective and wandering into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The taller man waited for almost a whole minute before getting up and following him, leaning against the table (careful not to lean into his experiments) arms crossed, smirk gracing his features. In that brief interlude he decided he much preferred being close to the tea-connoisseur.

John's ears turned a (rather fetching) shade of red and he feigned ignorance for a couple of minutes before spinning around and fixing Sherlock with a suspicious stare. "Okay, what do you want?"

He had crossed his arms, mirroring the taller man, gaze reminiscent of an army sergeant ordering an answer from a misbehaving squaddie. He mused on it for a second, looking down at Johns feet to avoid making eye contact.

"May I have a hug?"

John blinked at him, shaking his head, staring off into the distance and then back at him. A grin grew on his face and he uncrossed his arms. "You know, I don't think you will ever make sense."

Sherlock shrugged and the doctor smirked. "Are you going to tell me what this experiment is all about first?"

The detective looked back up tilting his head. "I will when it's done."

"Fine."

He held his arms out and Sherlock waited for a second before stepping forwards into the embrace. John clutched him loosely, hands circling his waist and Sherlock gripped him around the shoulder, John paused for a second before burying his face in his neck. The detective took the time to catalogue every warm breath across his skin, every twitch of Johns' fingers against his back and the texture of his clothes, the scent of his skin now overpowering the clinical scent of the hospital. He smiled and Johns own lips slid against his bare neck, an answering grin.

"You know, this is pretty weird. Even for us."

Sherlock just shrugged into the hug sliding a hand to grasp the back of John's neck, fingers rubbing against the soft hair at the nape.

"Hmm, interesting."

"What?"

Sherlock stayed silent, they had been hugging now for almost three entire minutes. The doctor's hands tensed on his hips and he sighed. "I was interested in understanding the concept of a hug. It appears to be a popular social gesture and as I am now involved in a personal relationship I thought it prudent to discover what he possible motivations for this action were." It wasn't a complete lie, he didn't really understand where the benefit lay ...well, didn't _used_ to understand.

John released him stepping back; he looked confused (and slightly flushed) arms crossed. "What personal relationship?"

"You and me John..."

"Oh..." Johns face began to flush and Sherlock realised what he must be thinking, it was interesting to watch him trying to figure out what to say but after a full minute of him opening and closing his mouth without a sound the detective took pity on him.

"We are friends aren't we?"

"Oh yeah, yes... yes. Friends. Yes."

There was a long silence and John leant backwards on the unit, hands grasping the counter (That was certainly an interesting reaction.). He still wouldn't look at Sherlock but he spoke again, his voice extremely quiet. "So _did_ you figure out any motives?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes."

John looked up his face unreadable (How very irritating.) "Well?"

"The hug itself, judging by our arrangement, is a rather comfortable position for two people to be in and it appears to satisfy the human desire for bodily contact or social contact rather well. From my observations it also appears to have an emotional effect on the participants particularly if they are already in an emotional state. I have also realised that there are many different types and the correct usage varies with the status of the participant's relationship and therefore has different effects on the dynamic of said relationship, although these further complexities do escape me."

John just stared at him and Sherlock felt his face heat up. Had he said the wrong thing? He was only trying to explain his thought process. Perhaps his explanation had been too detailed. "Hugging is nice. You can hug both friends and romantic partners but in different ways. It is nice because it feels good and you get to be close to someone you like or it alleviates emotional discomfort."

Johns shocked face blinked back at him and then (to Sherlock's horror) a smirk slipped out, spreading across his face. The doctor laughed and Sherlock moved to walk away, he didn't want to be mocked. _Especially_ by John of all people. A hand landed on his arm and he was pulled back to face the shorter man.

"Sorry. I know you're trying it's just...it's weird. You don't always get such a ...precise and scientific list of observations."

Sherlock stared down at his shoes. "So my observations _were_ correct?"

"Yes. Maybe I'll explain the, what did you call it... complexities of the different types of hug later."

Sherlock looked up and beamed. "Excellent."

John sighed shaking his head and turning around.

They spent the next few days indoors, John refusing to leave with his face still beaten and bruised. (apparently he disliked the stares they received. Not that Sherlock had noticed any.) By the next week the wounds had healed and he was back to lounging on his chair, solving crime in his pyjamas with the use of his (Johns) laptop.

Talking about the doctor he had left an hour ago to pick up some milk and hadn't returned. Something that niggled in the back of the detectives mind occasionally distracting him enough for him to send a brief text in the doctor's direction. Two hours after John had left he received a single pointed text.

**I am alive. On a date with Sarah. I did mention. JW**

Sherlock frowned, this will not do. John's habit had picked up again and so soon. Flinging his legs off the sofa he lurched to his feet rushing to his bedroom to change. It took him less than an hour to work out where they had gone, he had tried the restaurant but it appeared he had already missed their meal and so by now he reasoned they were on their way to the nearby cinema.

He didn't see them in the foyer and so chose the most likely movie, paying for his ticket and ignoring the confused ticket girl, eyebrows raised as she asked him if he was _sure_ he wanted to see 'The love connection'. He fixed her with a withering glare "Is there a problem?" She shook her head and watched him leave, the other ticket sellers sharing confused glances as he flounced away. He realised why when he entered the screen, there were several couples dotted around them wet noises emanating from a few. Sherlock turned up his nose, trotting up the stairs to sit high up at the back giving him a wide view of the other seats.

Not five minutes later John and (unfortunately) Sarah wandered up the steps, stood close to, but not touching, each other. They reached the plateau slightly further down from him and Sherlock tried to slip down in his seat but Johns eyes landed as if by magic on him, the polite smile dropping off his face. He gestured to his and Sarah's seats and excused himself, her gaze following up the stairs as he rushed to the detective's side glaring down at him hands on hips.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock frowned, John was clearly angry his voice barely staying below a whisper. He twitched his lips staring back up at his colleague. "I couldn't be certain your text wasn't a ploy by a kidnapper of yours."

"A kidnapper of mine! I haven't been kidnapped!"

"That is a matter of semantics."

John threw his hands up in the air letting out an exasperated noise, "You're insane!" Sherlock just shrugged and John's hands dropped to his sides, and he shook his head wandering back down the steps.

The movie itself was quiet inane although it did present a clear and rather simple example of a typical romantic relationship. It could be useful if he did manage to elevate his and John's relationship to something more than friendship.

Sherlock actually spent the time imagining himself and John into the respective roles in an effort to see what a romantic relationship would involve (John was the simpering female obviously.) but he soon found himself growing angry at his and Johns characters strange and out of character behaviour.

Sherlock would _never_ wear a suit as hideous as that nor would John cry like that when they fought. As the credits rolled he blinked, surprised at himself. Since when did he fantasise like that?

He was so shocked he almost missed John and Sarah's attempt at a quick escape, although, when he found them in the lobby John didn't seem entirely too upset to see him eventually agreeing that they should all share the taxi together. When it pulled up outside the females flat however he hesitated getting out and raising a finger (almost subconsciously it seemed) to hold the taxi.

Sherlock watched through the window reading their lips. Sarah reached the door and span around waving a hand casually and asking him if he wanted to come in. Sherlock sucked in a breath; he just wanted the doctor to come back with him. Now he thought about it the very idea that he wanted to go into_ that_ place with _that_ woman sent a sharp jolt down his chest and he licked his lips.

To his surprise (and absolute glee) John glanced back to the car and then shrugged his shoulder, an apologetic smile on his face. "Sherlock said he'd pay for the cab and I am a bit short so..." Her smile dimmed and she blinked shaking her head before leaning towards him. John pecked her on the lips and she pulled back slowly, her shoulders slumping a little. With a polite wave she turned and let herself in, not even looking back. John stayed where he was until the door slammed shut and then he turned walking slowly back to the car.

The ride home was quiet, deathly even and John kept fiddling with his phone typing out a text and hitting send. Just as they pulled up outside he received one in return and froze in his seat. Sherlock turned to him, clearly he had just received bad news, his face was frozen in what appeared to be shock.

"John?"

The doctor flinched and turned to him. "Hmm?"

"You have to get out of the cab John."

He shook his head, fluffy blonde hair and wide dazed eyes making him look like a child."Hm, oh yeah..."

Sherlock took a step back and waited for his colleague to get out, watching him carefully as he stuffed his phone into his pocket a weak smile in the direction of the detective. Together they walked up the stairs to the flat, rounding the corner to see the back of an unfamiliar head just over the edge of the floor. As they ascended Sherlock frowned and John glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Who the hell is that?"

Sherlock's face dropped and he stepped smartly into the room taking his coat off as though the woman wasn't there. She turned slowly holding John's gun in her hands, stroking the barrel and turning it over in her grasp. "Military issue Browning L19A. Very nice."

"Irene."

"Sherlock, how lovely to see you again."

The doctor stepped around Sherlock, crossing his arms and standing just a bit too close to him. Irene raised her eyebrows in his direction and placed the gun on the table, stepping forwards, hands clasped in front of herself. She was undeniably beautiful, long silken brown hair, full red lips and deep dark eyes, dressed smartly in a white shirt and high waisted black trousers that clung to every curve.

"Oh I do apologise, I didn't realise Sherlock brought dates home now. We always went to hotels..."

Sherlock sighed, and glanced sideways. John hadn't uttered a word and by now his face was like stone (the fact he hadn't even uttered the words' not his date' made Sherlock stomach flip.), eyes boring into her with such intensity the detective was surprised she had managed to keep the pleasant smile on her face.

"I don't date."

John blinked and still wouldn't look at him, uncrossing his hands so his palm just grazed the top of Sherlock's hand sending shivers up and down his spine. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Irene Adler. This is John my colleague. He lives here."

Sherlock spoke before she could form the words, crossing the room and slumping onto the sofa. He crossed his ankles careful not to look at John instead staring up at the ceiling.

"Oh I see."

He glanced down to find Irene staring at his companion as if he were some sort of ancient relic, mouth hanging open slightly. There was a long silence and then John tilted his head. "How do you know Sherlock?"

"Oh I bring him cases sometimes, when I am having difficulty. We have been friends for a few years now."

"Sherlock doesn't have _friends_."

She blinked at him, smirking a little and placing a hand on her hip. "Well I say friends... we...how would he say it? We shared a period of shared physical activity."

John merely made a noise at the back of his throat, expression not changing. (So he failed at not looking at him, it was a shame really; that now he had noticed how attractive John was he found it rather difficult to **stop** noticing.)

She grinned smugly and walked up to the sofa reaching between her busts to pull out a folded piece of paper, dropping it onto Sherlock's chest. He stared up at her, those eyes sparkled back at him with something he couldn't name and which sent a cold shiver through his frame. He listened as her heels clacked on the floor as she made her way out, pausing for just a second as she crossed the threshold.

After a few minutes he looked around to find John still stood in the doorway, looking at him with a strange expression on his face. "What?"

"I thought you said you were gay."

"I said I _suppose_ I am. I never said I haven't shared physical activity with woman."

"Stop calling it that!"

"Well what would you have me call it?"

"I don't know! It just sounds creepy."

"I don't understand why you are so angry."

"I'm not angry."

"You sound angry."

John let out a frustrated breath and stamped off to the kitchen, banging pots, pans and plates down as he began the washing. Sherlock sighed, now John was mad at him.

**Fantastic**.

He crossed his arms, wriggling around until his back was turned to the flat and he could just stare into the back of the sofa, his mind whirring at breakneck speeds. John was acting oddly; there was nothing in that stupid movie that explained this. He had been acting oddly since he received that text in the car; no text should e enough to make him so hostile to a stranger.

Even if she was a stranger who appeared to have broken into their flat.

Sherlock sniffed and grasped he folded paper in his hand, pulling it up to his face and carefully opening it. Written in flowery italics, (Irene's handwriting was atrocious he noted.) were the words

_**New case. Ring theft, no suspects. Priceless. Call me. **_

There was the faint imprint of a lipstick kiss on the paper and Sherlock sniffed, crumpling it in his hand. How useless, she couldn't have brought him a less boring case. He had much more interesting things to be getting on with thank you, namely finding out what was wrong with John and fixing it.

Maybe if he did John would let him hug him again.

And he really _really_ wanted that.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Sorry this took so long. I've been busy moving to university (: thanks again for all the reviews. Please don't forget to tell me what you think and where you want this to go in future!_

The next day (sometime around three in the afternoon. He didn't sleep often and when he did his body utterly refused to awake until he was fully rested.) Sherlock was woken by a bang in the kitchen. He got up quickly and walked to his door, pausing when he heard a not unfamiliar voice.

"So, you live here?"

"Yes. _Obviously_."

He smiled; John was rather snippy this early in the morning. "How did that come about?"

"He really wanted this place but he couldn't afford it. He asked a mutual friend to help him look for a flatmate and here I am."

"Oh..."

"What?"

"It's just, he has had flatmates before but they have always left within days and in one case, minutes."

"Well, it works for me."

"So you are really just flatmates then?"

"Yes." John sounded frustrated, the same tone he used every time he had to remind people that he and Sherlock weren't a couple. The detective smirked.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

There was suddenly a rather predatory tone in her voice that hit his stomach like a punch and he was on the move, long legs carrying the detective from him room and into the kitchen before John even had chance to reply.

"Yes he does."

She looked to the detective and raising an eyebrow moved a step away from John, taking her hand from the unit next to the doctors and placing it in her pockets. John turned around at the sound of his voice and stopped, hands still halfway up, mouth hanging open. It was then the detective realised that he had forgotten to get dressed before he burst in to save John from Irene. His skin began to heat, and he couldn't look away from that solid gaze, John's eyes trailing down his body and then back up, the eye contact sending a flash of something that made his skin prickle, and he looked away instead staring at Irene.

"Actually I don't."

His head whipped back around to see that John was still staring at him. He blinked, a strange swopping sensation appeared in his stomach and taking a step forwards, he rubbed a hand against his thigh. "**Oh**." To his surprise the noise he emitted was rather soft, and he couldn't stop the smile that grew over his face. John however looked rather upset. (He was bewildered by that. Surely getting rid of that dull Sarah was a _good _thing.)He glanced at Irene to find her with a hand to her face, shaking her head, something akin to pity in her eyes. He blinked and reconsidered, wiping the grin off his face before looking away.

"Sherlock...how very nice it is to see you this morning."

She strutted up to him placing a hand on his bare chest, sliding it down slightly, her nails scratching his exposed skin as she smiled up at him with a wink. "Did you consider my offer?"

"_What_ offer?" John was still staring at him, a tiny frown on his face; she rolled her eyes at the sound of his voice. Also not looking away from Sherlock.

"I'm not interested in your money, your case or your propositions." He knew he sounded petulant but he did not want anymore association with Irene than was strictly necessary. She was a nuisance.

He stepped back and she scowled, her pretty face bunching up into an ugly pout. "Oh, But I really need your help. Please? I will pay you a handsome price."

John crossed his arms "How much exactly?"

She turned around putting her hands on her hips. "Do you speak for him now?"

"I do when it's about money. Mrs. Hudson won't continue to let us rent for half the price if she doesn't get Sherlock's half soon."

"Well, £5000 now, £5000 when he finds me that ring."

"Deal."

She smiled and skipped up to him, placing a hand on one cheek and pressing her lips to the other "I underestimated you John. You're a star." She smiled at the now blushing man and reached a clawed hand between her breasts, pulling out a folded cheque in Sherlock's name. She tucked it into the doctor's pockets, leaning up against him and smirking into his neck. Giggling she wiggled back up to Sherlock tapping him on the stomach as she passed. "Thank you Sherlock dear. I'll send you what I have later."

Sherlock watched her leave and then looked back to his colleague. "Why did you do that! She is a harpy John, a **harpy**. Nothing good will come of this."

"Don't be ridiculous. She is paying you ten grand for a days' work at the most."

"It's a matter of principle!"

John still wouldn't look at him properly, and Sherlock began to squirm when he realised that the doctor was in fact blushing, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes pointedly fixed elsewhere. Sherlock squinted at him, perhaps a small experiment to decide whether John defiantly found him attractive or not.

He slid between the table and the unit, so he was standing next to the doctor as though he was intending to make tea. He reached out an arm, knocking against the shorter mans (nice warm woollen) back with his bare arm. He fought with the kettle as he took it off the base, carrying it to the sink and attempting to fill it. He wasn't sure how much to use and he could feel Johns eyes on the back of his head so he just filled it to the top and span around, water slopping out of the spout.

He tried not to look as he walked back to the base and struggled to get it on, pausing before flicking the switch to turn it on. It was then he realised he wasn't sure where the tea was... did John use tea bags? Or tea leaves? Did he put it in a pot first?

He frowned reaching for a box on the unit and struggling to open it. He was still dithering about this when a rough palm closed over his and gently removed the box, twisting the silver lid revealing a handful of teabags.

Sherlock glanced sideways hopefully but John just looked tired, his face half turned towards the mugs that littered the units. He pulled two over and suddenly began talking Sherlock through the process, his voice quiet but firm. Sherlock vaguely began to wonder if that was how he spoke to the soldiers under his command and he opened his mouth to ask when John suddenly took his hands again and handed him a spoon.

"Take the teabags out and viola. You're done."

He glanced up only once, making eye contact for a split second. Sherlock voice died in his throat (how very odd, a phenomenon he had only read about in the past) and he just watched as the doctor turned away, walking into the living room and sinking into his hair, just his arm, strong (still slightly tanned) wrists and loose fingers hanging over the edge the only appendage now visible.

He just stood like that for a minute before removing the teabags as instructed, the sound of a heavy sigh making him glance to the back of the chair. He hesitated before picking up the mugs and crossing the room sliding into his own chair with a sigh. John glanced at him. He looked miserable (even this expression was oddly attractive on the man. How unfair) and sipped from his cup, eyes downturned.

"So you ended your and Sarah's relationship."

"I don't want to talk about it."

John was being almost unnervingly abrupt, his voice low and Sherlock frowned. He didn't know what to do when John was emotional like this, it confused and scared him. He looked down at his tea, taking a sip and screwing up his nose.

"Mm I think I prefer your tea John."

The doctor neglected to comment and he seemed to be in a rather downtrodden and volatile mood. Sherlock's attempt at a conversation starter was clearly lacking. He sighed getting to his feet, he felt exposed with so much skin on show. Another relatively new emotion and not one he enjoyed.

Standing in the centre of his bedroom he placed his hands on his hips. John was clearly in need of some form of social comforting and yet again the detective was at a loss as to what to do. He looked around and spotted the (Johns) laptop.

Ah of course, he would consult the internet.

When Sherlock returned to the living room almost high on anticipation, now fully dressed in simple black trousers and a deep blood red shirt, John was lying down on the sofa, eyes closed, arms crossed over his stomach. He was resplendent like this, light eyelashes falling over smooth pink cheeks. Sherlock forgot what he had been so excited about not two seconds earlier, instead the entire force of his mind (which was impressive in itself) concentrated completely on the strip of skin he could see of Johns neck and chest through the v-neck in his jumper.

The detective shook his head closing his eyes as he concentrated on what he had read. "Do you want to go for an alcoholic drink...with me...to the pub?"

John spun his head around, gripping the arm of the sofa and staring at Sherlock, blinking furiously. A myriad of expression crossed the doctor's face but he didn't say anything. The detective squirmed for a minute in silence before speaking again; perhaps he had gotten it wrong. "Or maybe you want to eat ice cream and watch modern romantic comedy movies like Bridget Jones diary and... love actually?"

John blinked and then burst out laughing, in fact he was laughing so hard he rolled off the sofa and onto the floor, still giggling. "What the hell is this about?"

Sherlock pouted crossing his arms. This was exactly why he avoided social situations, he always got it wrong. "You appeared to be upset and I deduced that it was because you broke up with Sarah so I went on the internet and searched for what was required of me and what you could do to cheer up."

John stopped laughing and rolled over onto his stomach, quickly getting to his feet his face suddenly slowly falling and becoming more solemn. "Okay. Yes, I would like to go to the pub with you"

He seemed a bit hesitant so Sherlock took the initiative to smile and reach for his coat, hoping that yet again monkey see monkey do would work in his favour. Thankfully after a moment it did.

He let John choose the pub and order the drinks, sitting with his hands clasped together until he came back. He felt odd sat in the pub, leery men drinking pints and swaying against each other or arguing loudly from booths and sofas around the room. The air was stale and reeked of sweat, alcohol and the bitter tang of the barkeeps disinfectant. It was also unusually warm, a thin sheen of sweat building up on the detective s he stared out, deducing to distract himself.

He grasped the beer he was handed with both hands, it was not really his usual behaviour to drink alcoholic beverages, and he hadn't touched any drugs since he gave up his little problem. But of course, _that _had slipped Johns mind. John...John was already sipping on his drink glancing around and licking his lips in the most fascinating way. Suddenly his gaze fell on Sherlock and he frowned, his lips pouting a little eyes wrinkled at the edges.

"You don't have to drink it if you don't want to. I just thought I should get you one just in case you did. Do you drink alcohol or..."

"Not since I got clean no."

John just blinked at him, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. "You did it a lot then..."

"Yes"

"Oh."

"I'm clean John, I have been for years."

"Good, um well done."

Sherlock frowned and laughed, how very bizarre. John was obviously interested in his past life, which was promising as that was one of the signs he had read about. (his internet research of late had increased dramatically.)

"Thank you."

Two hours later John had achieved a state of intoxication that made Sherlock confident he could broach the true purpose of this excursion. "So...Sarah. I assume that the text you received in the cab was from her..."

"Yeah, yeah it was. She dumped me by text! Can you believe it? I'm not twelve!"

Sherlock just nodded along not entirely sure if he was supposed to speak, or why receiving a text informing him he was dumped had any bearing on John's age. "The thing is, I waited until the next day and then I called her because she hadn't even given me a reason just this...this _text_."

He reached into his pocket pulling out his phone and grumbling under his breath as he scrolled through the messages. Thrusting it into Sherlock's face he grimaced and the detective read it in a split second, taking the rest of the time it took John to take the phone away to admire the short strong fingers of his companion, clean sharp nails and a very faint visible patch of hair on each digit.

He took the phone back and it was then Sherlock realised John had scooted around the booth slightly to sit next to him (probably to allow easy access to his phone for Sherlock's convenience and defiantly nothing to get excited about.) and his thigh was now pressed up to the detectives, warmth flooding through his thin trousers. He kept jiggling his knee under the table, the friction sending shivers up and down his spine.

"So I called her, and she tells me that she can't bear to be with me because every second I spend with _you_ she worries that I am on the brink of death. I told her that is ridiculous, and it is only dangerous sometimes, most of the time we just watch TV and drink tea but she wasn't having any of it. She dumped me because the idea of you being anywhere near me causes her emotional pain."

Sherlock took a sip of his drink (barley water that John had insisted on buying for him, apologising both as he left and on his return from the bar, fingers dragging over Sherlock's as he handed him his drink).

How irrational females appeared to be. He hid a smile (if earlier was anything to go by smiling was the wrong social behaviour.) behind his glass, he was glad that he had come to a conclusion about his sexuality.

Men were defiantly his preference and in this case a specific man..

"Oh. My apologies."

"No it's not your fault. Although I do wish you'd take less dangerous cases sometimes..."

"Well if you could not get kidnapped every five minutes I too would be adamant in my gratitude."

John laughed and leant into him slightly shaking his head. The warmth of his companion and the easy way he moved around Sherlock like he was just another limb was intoxicating, especially for a man whose entire life had been spent being either stared at like some hideous atrocity or crept around like he was a unstable mad man.

"Well I don't think the fact that you turned up to half of our dates helped."

Sherlock shrugged and John laughed, "It's okay. I didn't really mind."

He was frowning now, looking out across the bar and Sherlock tilted his head trying to see what his companion was now staring at. All he could see were drunken fools, fat heaving men who rasped as they moved and swallowed their drinks as though breathing lungful's of bitter air.

He shuddered and turned back as John fixed him with a odd look, licking his lips and blinking blearily at him. "You're lucky you've never been in a relationship Sherlock, well except Justin..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, John's happy mood had taken a rather sharp downfall, from what he had researched this would be a time to show solidarity and share an experience. "His name was Jeremy."

John blushed and placed a hand on Sherlock's, swaying his head back and forth and squinting at the detective. "Sorry, sorry. _Jeremy_..."

"You want to know about him?"

John nodded sluggishly after a second, wobbling away from Sherlock's frame but keeping his hand on top of the taller mans. His palm was heated, dry and his fingers gentle as they squeezed Sherlock's own pale digits.

"I was, as you can imagine, an isolated child. I don't understand people and the other children pretty much treated me like I wasn't human even. I spent most of my time in summer by the river or in my families rented house, it had a small library which I was rather fond of. When I was eleven, and mummy had finally allowed me to go to the village unaided, I decided that I should visit the antique bookshop in the village; after a while the owner began to trust me and would let me browse through the volumes and study the text without having to buy them.

On my way back one day I noticed that there was a bench high up on the hill overlooking the play area, it was hidden by the branches of the trees around the edge of the tarmac and meant that if I sat in the middle I could see the children below me but they couldn't see me. This realisation caused me to stop, and I thought to myself if I could watch the other children then maybe I could learn what exactly was keeping me so distant from them.

So I did that every day until the end of the summer. The next year I went on the first day and sat down on my bench, I hadn't yet observed enough to actually attempt any of the social activities but it was very interesting for me to deduce things about them as they played, unaware of my presence.

I didn't even notice him at first; he had slid onto the bench next to me and was watching me watch the others play. He asked me what I was doing and I told him that I deducing facts about the other kids and their lives, their habits, their relationships, the hierarchy of the group. He was very interested and asked a lot of questions and the next day when I arrived he was already there, waiting for me. He again asked me to deduce things about the children he knew and would test me on what he already knew. It was intellectually stimulating.

Over time we would meet on the bench to talk every day. Mummy was very excited, naturally, and when I discovered he lived next door so was I. It was fascinating to have someone in my life who seemed genuinely interested in me and my work. So every year we would meet and talked on the bench until one year he actually asked me to stay over and that was the first time he kissed me.

I was fifteen and I found it rather strange, he had simply leant over as I was leaving his room to find my guest room and grasped me by the arms, kissing me and then closing the door in my face. It was admittedly extremely confusing.

I don't think I was very attracted to him... I was more in awe that he had noticed me at all. We never really spoke about it until the next year when I asked him to stay at the house we were renting. I had set a bed up for him in the guest room but that night he didn't go back to his room, instead he got into mine with me and... _Well, _he told me exactly what to do.

It was all over pretty quickly really, and he left me with a strange bruise on my neck, caused by suction I assume. He was leaving the next day and that morning he sat close to me at breakfast and kissed me goodbye.

I was happy; it was intoxicating to experience someone who seemed to truly care for me in an emotional way. As you remember, I had never had a friend let alone any form of romantic partner before him. So as you can imagine, I was greatly anticipating his arrival the next summer.

However, when he did come back he brought a group of friends from his boarding school with him, and when I went to the bench he was not there. For several days I returned there but he did not make an appearance.

Until of course I happened to be walking through the village on my way to the town morgue. A very helpful mortician was teaching me the basics of anatomy and in particular how to test for poisons or to see how a body died and was very accommodating, answering all my questions.

I saw Jeremy and greeted him, admittedly I was anxious as I had not talked to him out in the open like that but to my surprise he ignored me. At first I simply believed he must not have heard me so I walked up to him and touched him on the arm, he threw me over into the pavement and told me not to touch him because I was a freak.

His friends found this very funny and began to kick me. I waited for a while after they had left the area in case they decided they were not done. But they **had **left and so when I arrived at the morgue in that state the mortician was rather alarmed.

He tended to my worst wounds and we continued with our lesson, I would not tell him what had happened. In fact, it was then I decided I would not tell anybody what had happened and perhaps I was better off, more suited to concentrating wholly on my work."

John was silent for a long time and Sherlock began to feel irritated, what was he thinking? He had promised to himself nobody would know the story of Jeremy and of Sherlock's first attempts at appearing human. Jon had sat through his entire monologue with a strange expression on his face, and now...now he was beginning to fear it was disgust.

"Thank you for telling me."

It was then he realised Johns hand was holding his tightly, a thumb pad rubbing gentle circles in the back of his palm. John leant towards him and landed heavily against the detective's side with a deep sigh. He felt something tighten in his chest when he looked at their entwined hands and at the realisation that John was not disgusted, that in fact he sympathised with him.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock frowned, here with John leant against him, his warm breath on his skin, the concern in his voice and the gentle pressure of his hand on the detectives was...very nice. "Yes."

John smiled and clenched and unclenched his hand, blinking sluggishly at the wall.

Sherlock grinned just as the doctor eyes slid shut and he began to breathe deeply, it appeared that John had become too heavily intoxicated to remain here and with a gentle tug on his hand he managed to manoeuvre the man outside and into the back of a black cab.

The ride home was quiet, mostly because Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to speak whilst John was draped over him a hand on his chest, head leant against his shoulder, quiet mumbling escaping his lips. He was almost overcome by how good he felt retelling the unfortunate story from his past to his companion, and the fact that John seemed to genuinely care whether or not the detective was emotionally affected did little to dampen this mood.

He had a shock when he climbed out to have John wrap his arms around the detectives neck, still mumbling under his breath, and (after a brief moment of panic) he placed a palm against John's (now exposed) hip and tandem walked them to the front step, letting him go to unlock the door.

John slumped on the step next to him, rubbing his thigh and moaning quietly. "John, John are you alright?"

"Mm yeah just, my leg..."

Sherlock frowned and dove down, slinging an arm under Johns armpit to pull him to his feet. "Come along soldier. Can't stay here." He sued his most official sounding voice, attempting to mimic a commanding officer.

John seemed to straighten in his arms, muscles tensing and for a second Sherlock regretted saying anything, but then John walked right out of his grasp, climbing the stairs as though on a training exercise, two at a time, legs pumping away like a machine.

The detective laughed, it was interesting to know what motivated the man and he flew up after him, watching him carefully as he wobbled along the corridor, tripping and landing on his face as he went through the door.

Sherlock ran after him hopping over his prone form and crouching down on his heels. "John? Are you injured?"

"No."

His voice was muffled by the carpet and Sherlock sighed reaching out and lifting his head with one hand. "Can you get up?"

There was a pause and the man scrubbed his face up and down against the pile and let out a light hum. Sherlock smirked and stood up watching John crawl to his feet, wobbling slightly and then stumbling towards the bed, even now his poise was rather structured, he was a soldier down to the bone, straight backed and sure footed.

Well almost.

He slumped on the sheets, facing the ceiling and the detective frowned remembering a case where a man had been given drink after drink and ended up pushed onto his back. His spouse knew he was prone to vomiting when drunk and used this to make him choke on his own excretion.

He didn't want that to happen to John, not at all. So he reached out and grabbed his arm, the soft fabric of his top silky against his hands. Johns arm was intensely warm and he pulled on it so the doctor rolled over, now facing Sherlock's legs, an sleepy grin on his face.

"You will be alright John."

John closed his mouth and nodded slowly, sluggishly. He watched as the doctors eyelids began to droop, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he closed them, face free of the usual daily wear and tear of living with the detective.

He looked surprisingly young like this.

Turning to leave the detective smiled, judging by that morning John could well be attracted to him and so perhaps he would see more of this side of him. The warm, comforting, hugging side. It appealed greatly to him as fascinating and new as it was.

Just as Sherlock reached the door he looked back and John's eyes connected with his; oddly awake as opposed to seconds before.

"Forget about Jeremy, he is an idiot. Who wouldn't want _you_?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue that many people didn't enjoy his company but John's eyes had already slid shut.

He was asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Wow so this is longer than I expected but I hope I didn't waffle on too much. Thanks again for all the reviews you guys are awesome (: more reviews mean more chapters so do please tell me what you think._

He was bored bored _bored_, and he hated it. Slumped in Johns chair, silk dressing gown wrapped around himself he glared at the back of the doctors head, this was his fault somehow. It was why he had taken to commandeering the man's chair, just a little something to irritate him, he hated sitting in Sherlock's he said it was 'lacking in lower body support' ...or at least that was what he told himself.

He wouldn't admit that he _liked_ sitting here, he liked that it smelt of his shampoo and that it had a tea stain on one arm where Sherlock had shocked the doctor making him spill his drink. It was sturdy, strong and solid, much like the doctor and he _liked_ that.

Grumbling his shifted around and John suddenly spun around, back now facing the windows, face stern. "Look if you're bored why not actually take a case instead of ignoring them for being 'too dull' surely they are more exciting than just sitting here in your pyjamas."

Sherlock rolled his eyes "There aren't any cases."

"**Yes** there are, what about the one Irene gave you?"

"Solved it."

"What! Why didn't you tell her?"

"I told you John. She is a harpy."

The doctor growled and stamped across the room abruptly burying his hand in Sherlock's dressing gown pocket and pulling out his phone. The detective was still reeling from having those hands on him when the phone was thrust back into his face.

"Hello? Sherlock?"

It was her voice, John had called her. "I have it."

He hung up straight away and John nodded, his face oddly flushed a flash of light in his eyes. "There, wasn't so bad was it." He walked away, heading upstairs for some unknown reason, Sherlock scowled and shouted after him.

"_Harpy!"_

She arrived almost twelve minutes later, picking the lock on the door downstairs and bouncing into the room. She smirked down at him, curled up in John's chair, arms wrapped around himself.

"Thank you Sherlock dear, although, maybe I should be thanking that handsome doctor of yours instead."

Sherlock glared at her, getting to his feet and stuffing his hands in his pockets. "You stay away from him."

"Oh Sherlock honey, he is single now and a big boy I think he can choose who he wants."

She licked her lips and batted her eyelashes, grinning up at him. How sickening. "Yes he can. As long as it isn't you."

She rolled her eyes and wiggled up to him, sliding her hands around his waist and pulling him tight against her body. She smelt of expensive Parisian perfume, it was overwhelming exuding from her in clouds.

"Where is it? I'd be happy to give you what you want in return..." (She seemed to be under the misapprehension that he wanted _her_. How vain.)

She moved up to kiss him but he turned his cheek, just as John came down the stairs. He stopped in the doorway staring at them. Sherlock took a neat step back and moved to the fireplace pulling the ring from underneath his skull, whispering a quiet thank you to the deceased being. He span back around to find John stood very close to him indeed, almost directly in between him and Irene. He decided not to comment, particularly because the doctor's shoulders were extremely tense and he was breathing oddly.

Reaching over the shorter mans shoulder he dropped the ring into her waiting palm and she grinned at him, pulling a wad of money from her jean pocket and slipping it into Johns. The doctor didn't even move and with a wave she pranced out the door leaving Sherlock stood not inches behind his companions back.

"Right. Well, now we have some money I guess I can do that shopping."

John walked forwards, not looking back his voice low, words slightly garbled; Sherlock groaned and watched him round the corner to the stairs. He was gone for just a few seconds before he popped his head back around the doorframe, a rather disconcerting grin gracing his features.

"Actually. Get dressed, since you are so bored you can come with."

Sherlock scowled as he prowled the lino floors, shoes squeaking as he turned corner s at speed inching past frail old women and mothers with trolleys full of screaming babies. He hated the supermarket but when John had told him get dressed he couldn't refuse, any time spent with John was considerably better than time without. Although he wasn't sure exactly why this was and was beginning to suspect that it was simply because he wasn't alone. How very...hallmark of him.

He glared at the shelves, he would give anything not to be bored right now, it was so horribly mundane, the steady beat of his movements, the slack jawed expressions on the shopper's faces, the distant tinny music that was piped out of every surface. He spotted the sauce John had told him to get. Two jars he had told him, reading off a list with a focussed expression.

John seemed to enjoy ordering Sherlock around, not that he was complaining. The stern 'business' voice he used sent a strange (but defiantly not unpleasant) shiver down his spine. Grabbing the two jars he all but ran back to the aisle he left John in, frowning in confusion when he noticed he wasn't there.

Just their trolley, left by the pasta.

Sherlock walked up to it; there were no clues on the trolley and nothing nearby to signify where he went. So he puts the jars in and waited, after five minutes he decided to go look, pushing the trolley ahead of him and peering all around for the doctor. But he was nowhere to be found and Sherlock felt panic rising in his chest.

Where the hell was he?

He pulled out his phone, dialling the number and grasping it tightly to his head but it just rang and rang and he left a message attempting not to sound pleading. Sherlock frowned and glanced around, he felt like everyone was staring at him (and not in the good way. In the skin tingling, uncomfortable gut wrenching way) stolen glances caught his eyes, whispered words and he pushed the trolley again focussing on the shopping inside.

He decided to go to the till, paying with his card and blankly staring at the woman as she tried to make what he assumed was polite conversation with him. He just took the shopping and ran, daring to hope the doctor was outside cooling off from an angry outburst.

Outside he couldn't see John anywhere and when he called it went straight to voicemail. He glared at his phone, thrusting it into his pocket and stamping to the kerb, he glanced up and hailed a cab, almost on automatic mode, his mind focussing instead on where the hell John could've gone.

He reasoned that perhaps he had said something to upset the doctor and hadn't notice...or there was an emergency and he simply didn't have time to tell the detective. Whatever the reason he knew that John was a grown man who was reasonably (besides his rather endearing if mildly irritating habit of throwing himself in front of Sherlock in the event of any danger.) able to look after himself and as he had no cases at the time it was unlikely he had been kidnapped again.

Although...it was in fitting with his pattern.

Sherlock scowled as he entered the flat (a small voice in his brain had promised him John would be there when he got in but he wasn't) he approached the kitchen with the bags and stopped. He didn't know where anything went... he just left them to the side on the floor and walked to the window, staring out into the street as if John would just appear to him like a vision.

It seemed unlikely.

By that night he was staring at John's blog on the (Johns) laptop, eyes stinging from the light. It was becoming too much, John hadn't posted anything, Lestrade had promised to keep his eyes open and Sherlock had even resorted to thinking about contacting Mycroft again. If anybody could find him, it was his brother. (Unfortunately.) Sherlock groaned into the night air and got to his feet, cold floors making his toes curl as he made his way upstairs to John's room, it was as the doctor had left it that morning which made the detective frown, crossing the room in an instant and yanking the drawers open until he found what he was looking for.

He had decided to allow John to wear the red jumper again, if only once and he had, for five minutes. (John had ripped it off so he could roll up his sleeves to deal with a rather dangerous if interesting spill Sherlock had caused.) It was yet again full of his scent and Sherlock smiled softly pulling it over his head and wrapping himself in the smell, the warmth and soft comfort.

He turned to leave his eyes falling on the unmade bed. John's unmade bed. It was as if he didn't have a choice, the urge was so strong he was already across the room and sliding into the sheets before he could stop himself. They were cold without the doctor and he wrapped his arms around himself, knees up to his chest, face buried in the thick woollen jumper inhaling deeply. He thought about how he had asked to be anything other than bored, but lying there with his chest so tight with worry he couldn't think properly he decided being bored was better than this. Anything was.

It was like this that Mrs. Hudson found him the next morning, a whimper almost like a mother cooing over her child with a skinned knee filtering through the duvet. She trotted into the room and stood at the edge of the bed. "You two had another domestic?"

Sherlock rolled over and stared up at her. "Mrs Hudson."

"Yes dear."

"I think John is missing."

She put a hand to her mouth, a sad sort of shock flittering over her features and then she sniffed looking up at the window and then back down with a strange smile on her face, head tilted to the side. "Well, if anybody can find him it is you Sherlock."

She reached down and patted his thigh through the sheets and then turned trotting out of the room. "I'll make you some tea. It will help you think." (She appeared to believe that tea was a substitute or cure for any ailment, problem or situation.)

He waited until she had left before rolling out of the bed, leaving it unmade on his way out of the door. When he arrived downstairs Mrs. Hudson had just rounded the corner from her flat, tea tray in her hands. Sherlock smiled at her and took a cup swallowing it all in one big gulp and nodding to her on is way out.

"Work to do Mrs. Hudson. Work to do."

Unfortunately the security man at the supermarket was being rather uncooperative, a tall and heavy set man in a luminous jacket, legs astride he stood in front of the CCTV room with a bored expression. Sherlock flashed one of his (Lestrade's) ID's but the man snatched it from his hand and looked from the picture to Sherlock and back, snorting and dropping it at his feet.

"You ain't coming in so bugger off."

"A man is in trouble, possibly dead!"

"Well that's a shame ain't it."

Sherlock glared up at him trying to think of way to get past when there was distinct change in the air and he didn't even have to turn his head to know who it was. "Excuse me sir. I think my colleague and I require your security tapes for the hours between "(a slight pause as he flipped out his notebook and stared down at his own italic writing.) "14.23 and 14.44 of yesterday afternoon."

The man blinked and Mycroft looked down at him from beneath his brow. "Mr Rogers, I am sure your dear mother would love you to help with such a simple but important task."

"My ma?"

"Yes, I would hate to visit Eagleview nursing home and be forced to tell her how terribly uncooperative her only son is."

The security guard blushed "Do you have ID..."

Mycroft's hand barely moved as he flashed a card which made the security guard straighten up and step aside, hands shaking as he unlocked the door.

The man inside was very helpful, (much more so than his colleague) grabbing the tapes and handing them over without a word, just a confused glance to the blushing security man. As they left Mycroft paused and smiled (grimaced) at the man, "Thank you Mr. Rogers. Mrs. Rogers would be so proud."

Together the Holmes brothers left the supermarket, Sherlock clutching the tapes to his chest and he didn't even hesitate as a door opened as if by magic for him, sliding into the back seat of the anonymous vehicle without a word.

Mycroft didn't speak; he simply stared at his brother, his assistant typing away in silence. Sherlock stared out of the darkened windows, arms wrapped tightly around himself, hand placed over the tape in his top pocket. As soon as they pulled up outside 221B he leapt out, only pausing to hear the window slide down behind him and Mycroft's indulgent tones make the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "I will keep my men on it." Sherlock nodded as he pounded on the door and after a moment he heard the tyres on the tarmac as they pulled away. He must look awful for his brother to decide he needed help but then...with John he always did get unusually distracted.

It was true he had not felt anything like affection or lust for anybody for years but they way that Johns presence made everything seem so much _more_ just got to him. What was it about the doctor that invoked previously unheard of emotions in him? And what emotions exactly were they? Was it simple affection coupled with lust or was it the one emotion Sherlock had previously thought he found impossible to understand.

**Love**?

It was a striking idea that he was in love with this man, the simple idea that he could love was intoxicating and yet, right now, on the steps of221B he simultaneously decided that he did love John Watson and wished that he didn't. Because his chest burned with his loss and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking.

Where was he? He should've been there when Sherlock realised just how much he meant to him, how important he was. The knowledge of his own emotions trickled over him like warm water dripping from a ill maintained shower, it was simple and yet it complicated so many things. He clenched his hands in his pockets and Mrs. Hudson opened the door, a cup of tea already in her hand as though she had been expecting him at this very moment.

He watched and re-watched the tape several times, making absolutely sure he got a distinct and clear picture of what had happened to the doctor. John was stood by the trolley, flicking through the list with a focussed expression on his face. A man walked up behind him and Johns eyes grew larger, his mouth setting in a straight tight line, eyes hardening after a second, back ramrod straight.

The man then moved off down the aisle John walking barely a foot in front of him, by the twitch of his shoulder it was clear a gun was being held to his back and for the briefest second Johns eyes flickered up to stare down the camera, mouthing a single word.

'Sorry'

Sherlock shuddered in his seat, eyes still glued as John disappeared though the sliding doors, the corner of a dark sedan pulling up just out of the cameras vision.

The man appeared to be of Italian descent, dark glossy hair and thick eyebrows, a large nose and bowed lips. He had snarled something into Johns ear but Sherlock couldn't see what it was, although he was sure it was immaterial. He sat back.

He had nothing, no leads no nothing.

But John was relying on him to find him, he couldn't think. His great brain stuttered to a stop, he had no leads and by now they should've called with a ransom demand. Unless of course John was already dead.

A sharp pang in his chest mad him leap from his seat, pacing around and around, it was like being back at the hospital except now, now it was worse because now he was surrounded by Johns chair, Johns clothes, the mug he had drunken out of that morning, the note on the mirror to remind Sherlock to eat, the stacked pots in the kitchen and the window opened just a crack because John liked the air to be fresh but even he wasn't oblivious to the cold of London.

It was all too much and he stormed from the room, running to hide in his bedroom. Perhaps there amongst many experiments and his extensive book collection he could distract his mind enough to think, to just think and work out exactly where his companion was.

The next day Mycroft appeared in his bedroom doorway, prodding him with his umbrella and then disappearing. Sherlock got changed quickly just in case he had something that would constitute a minuscule lead. (As irritating his brother was, he was the second best at finding out information quickly. Sherlock being first of course.)

The man looked more serious than ever and was sat on the sofa, writing furiously in his notepad. Sherlock stopped in the doorway and stared at him. The air had a faint whiff of coffee (among other things) and so he deduced that Mycroft had been here a while, perhaps waiting for the detective to come downstairs himself.

How oddly thoughtful of him, naturally it made Sherlock suspicious and he crossed his arms trying to sound less worried than he (surprisingly) felt, ignoring the bitter cold of the morning air as it made the hairs on his arms stand to attention .

"You have something?"

"My people have reviewed the tapes and have also reviewed all previous sightings of you in the past week. We believe we have something."

Sherlock sniffed, it was no surprise that Mycroft was watching him, in fact he was counting on it. "Go on."

"You were spotted three days ago at a bank in north London. You accessed a lock box there and retrieved a small black box. As you received this the man seen in the video with John was also seen behind you at the bank, as you can see from these stills he appears extremely angry with the bank staff and leaves several minutes after you seemingly without what he came for."

"They were after the ring. I suppose the thief was selling it to them. Surely they would've contacted me to ask for it back. Unless...unless they wanted me to find out this way... they wouldn't want to arouse suspicion of course."

Sherlock put a hand to his face, pacing between his brother and the door. "They know I have given it back to Irene! That is it! They want me to retrieve it from Irene, something they must have previously failed to do."

Sherlock turned on his heel and flew from the flat, leaving his brother to watch his retreating back, wincing only slightly as he slammed the front door.

He knew where she would be, she was outstandingly predictable sometimes and when he skidded into the restaurant it appeared he already knew he was coming, a seat pulled out for him, cup of tea waiting.

"Sherlock. Do sit down." He paused pulling down his shirt and sliding into the seat opposite her. She wouldn't look up at him and knew she had already deduced why he was here. "Irene, I need that ring."

"I'm sorry Sherlock but it has already gone back to its rightful owner."

Sherlock snarled and slammed a hand down, splashing tea on her dress, his eyes blazing. She blinked at him, clearly a little shocked and yet she recovered quickly (as only Irene Adler could) dabbing at herself with a napkin.

"I am sorry Sherlock. Truly I am."

"That's not good enough."

"My, you certainly seem to value your lovers more these days."

"He is not my lover. He is my colleague."

She twitched her lips and fixed him with a piercing gaze. "Is a lover not more dear to you than a colleague. My employer is a rather influential person, I do not know what they would do if I couldn't retrieve the diamond for them."

Sherlock crossed his arms, holding her gaze. She tilted her head to the side and suddenly as if he had spoken she raised her eyebrows. "But then...you do care about him don't you? You care about John Watson."

"More than you know. Now, where is it?"

She pouted "It is on a plane to Cuba. It is a shame Sherlock that you could not care for me; we would've made a great pair."

He got to his feet, and she grabbed his arm. "I _am_ so very very sorry Sherlock."

Sherlock wrenched his arm from her grasp, shaking his head and storming away. When he reached the strikingly cold street he sucked in a deep breath and texted Lestrade, he needed someone to bounce off of and the DI was the only thing he had left.

Sherlock arrived at the flat and flew up the stairs staring around himself at the assorted furniture, the paper and books. He knew he should but Sherlock didn't feel anything, not now right now his blood was on fire his veins burning with the chase. He did not feel pain, or anguish or warmth he could only hear the thundering of his heartbeat, breath the acid in his lungs.

There was a thud downstairs and his heart seemed to stop. "John?"

It was a dearest dream to hope but alas it was not to be. "No it's Lestrade. You texted me?" he sounded unsure, as though he wasn't to be allowed up.

"Your name could be Dominic or Paul or bloody Peter for all I care. Get in here."

"Did you say Italian? Jewel thieves?"

Sherlock nodded and as they stared at each other, the detective having explained everything he could as fast as he could whilst still speaking clearly, and lunged down to grab the printed screenshots of the CCTV thrusting it into the DI's hands and pacing around him.

"Are they familiar to you?"

"I'm not sure Sherlock, I can't remember every face. Hang on I'll call into base and see what they think."

He reached down for his walkie talkie only for it to crackle to life. "Code 11, code 11, man wounded in action. Please. Is anyone out there? Code 11."

It was a voice, a familiar voice and Sherlock reached down yanking the unit from Lestrade's waist without so much as a glance at the man, clutching the walkie talkie to his ear s though he would die were it not affixed.

"John?"

There was pause and then the radio crackled again, the doctors' voice sounded urgent, abrupt and there was a bitter twinge of pain to it that sent a similar feeling straight to the detectives stomach.

"_Sherlock?_ My god I can't believe... Sherlock help I've been kidnapped. Where are you? It's...it's been days."

"I'm sorry John."

Lestrade's eyebrows flew to his hairline but he didn't comment. "John, where are you?"

"I don't...I'm not sure. In some sort of electrical shed."

"Can you see through any windows? Landmarks John I need landmarks."

"It's just buildings, grey buildings."

"What can you hear? What does it smell like? Hurry."

"I can hear machinery...and boats. It sounds like water. I think I'm by the river..."

"Yes...more John more."

"It...it smells like, like mould and iron I can't...wait there a siren can you hear it?"

Sherlock listened intently and in the distance he heard a faint horn, and almost instantly he knew. "John, can you run, can you get out?"

"The lock is pretty rusted but when they threw me in here I think...my leg is broken. I can walk on it though..."

"Wouldn't that damage your leg?"

"Yes. Most likely."

"Then remain where you are."

This earned him a startled look from the DI. Possibly because Sherlock sounded now how he was sure he would feel once the adrenaline had worn off, desperate, afraid, concerned and furious(at himself. He should've figured this out days ago. He should've saved him.)There was brief pause (and a sound almost like a sob that made his chest ache) and Johns voice wavered out to him for a final time.

"Please hurry."

Sherlock threw the unit at Lestrade and ran down the stairs, jumping into the police car. The DI followed not a minute later, sliding into his seat and turning on the engine. He glanced at Sherlock.

"Where are we going?"

"Do you know the new docklands apartments... "

"You're gonna have to be more specific Sherlock."

They sped around corners, the siren just a whisper as Sherlock's mind calculated routes. "Turn left, now right. Keep ahead."

Lestrade shook his head taking his orders(without question. In his adrenaline haze the detective realised he was probably shouting.) skidding and swerving to a halt outside of a large building site as Sherlock shouted the word '**there!'** a arm pointing out, a man in a orange fluorescent jacket ran to the window .

"Who are you?"

Sherlock was out of the car before Lestrade could respond, the DI grabbing the man's arm and quietly explaining something or other to him that stopped him chasing after the detective as he sprinted across the site, dodging workers and pipes and cement mixers until he skidded to a tiny plot next to it.

Not accessible from the road, containing several run down sheds. He stopped panting and began the steady process of kicking in each door, eyes bugging form his head, chest heaving and yet he felt like he was in a bubble unable to feel or really experience what was going on.

Single minded.

And then with a crack the last door opened just enough to reveal John. John huddled on a pile of cardboard and screws, leg bound in wire to a thin strip of metal. (clearly the doctor had decided that in case he did in fact need to run a splint would be most useful) his face was filthy, clothes caked in grease and dirt and there was a large bruise on his jaw, footprints on his knees.

They had broken his leg on purpose and now, now Sherlock was so angry he kicked and kicked the locks(there were several) pulling a long strip of metal from the crack and using I to pry the door open. Finally it appeared weak enough and he took a step back, just as Lestrade and what he assumed was his back up arrived behind him, two men in cuffs but not the original kidnapper.

But that was unimportant right now, right now he had to get to John and he shouldered the door, it came hurtling off and landed wonkily, hanging off its hinges as John stared up at him. Now there was more light Sherlock could see the tear streaks in the dirt of his cheeks, the way his face was so lined and his eyes held so much pain and gratitude that he shook his head, ducking down to help him stand, a arm around his waist.

John was clutching a plastic box, tied together with string, wires and an enormous aerial poking out the top. "You made your own radio?" Sherlock murmured to him as they limped like conjoined twins out into the cold London air, towards the man in the orange jacket who stared at them in shock. He put a hand to his face before he jumped into action, clearing a path for them, the workers turning to stare, as Lestrade came up behind them and went streaking past,(probably to get his car ready to drive John to the hospital).

Johns gasped besides him as they crossed a large lumpy piece of concrete and nodded his hair brushing Sherlock's ear, pained laboured breathing rasping over his neck. "Mmm. Had to contact someone. Left my phone in the flat."

Sherlock shook his head. "How?"

"They shouldn't lock a war veteran in an electronics shed."

He chuckled dryly, dissolving into a fit of weak coughing. Sherlock dragged him the last few steps to the car and when he took a step back to open the door for him he felt Johns fingers tense on his arms, his lips pursed and for a second they just stared at each other.

The doctor, covered in grime and grease, eyes still trickling with unshed tears, mouth pressed together in pain and Sherlock skin so pale he warranted a haunting, expensive suit smeared with his partners filth and yet the red jumper he wore beneath (like battle armour his exhausted brain supplied. What crap.) was untarnished as if by magic, his eyes portraying more emotion than even he realised.

And then John hugged him. He did not ask, it seemed to go without saying that Sherlock accepted. A trembling hand reached around and grasped the back of his neck; the other arm sliding down to pull his waist closer and John face buried itself in his chest.

A shuddering breath (Sherlock feared It was a weep but did not comment. He simply couldn't) against the fabric and Sherlock wrapped his arms around Johns back, holding him tight and in a moment of madness he pressed a soft kiss to the top of his companions head. John was leant heavily against him and with some effort took a step back releasing him and Sherlock didn't look as he opened the door, helping the man slide into the back seat.

He followed a second later and Lestrade pulled out, his eyes flickering up to the mirror and back.

There was something strange growing on his face. A grin, a _grin_ at a time like this? Was he mocking them? Or was this correct behaviour, he was sure it wasn't and so Sherlock glared back at him and the DI chuckled eyes focussed back on the road as John whimpered next to the detective. Slowly turning to face him, head in the crook of his neck, hand tangled in the red sweater.

"Thank you."

"Not a problem John."

There was a long pause and Johns eyes drooped, head coming to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. He knew he should feel relief, or happiness or grief for Johns pain or _something_ and yet he didn't.

It was as though his mind had shut down from the admittedly mild spike of emotion earlier when he had realised that what he felt was love. But of course...how could he be sure that is what it was? Although it if were, then any emotion would be a sure fire shock to his system so perhaps his lack right now was simply his brain trying to protect him?

John wriggled against him hands clenching and unclosing and the detective lost his train of thought.

"I still want that sweater back."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks again for all the reviews. You guys are amazing. Please tell me what you think, much obliged.

Sherlock had been thrown out of A&E for shouting at the nurses. It was only to be expected really, he wanted John tended to right away, not in five minutes time! So he stood outside alternating between pacing back and forth through the smokers fug, (breathing deeply to try and catch a whiff of delicious second hand smoke) and leaning against the wall, hands in pockets scowl etched into his face. It was like this that Lestrade found him half an hour later.

He stopped on his heels and gave Sherlock the same look Mycroft always did, shaking his head and looking away. "John is having a cast put on."

"Good. How long will that take?"

"It has to dry for a little while..."

Sherlock snarled and crossed his arms, beginning his pacing again. Lestrade took his place at the wall and watched him for a while hands twitching in his coat. It was annoying, so annoying and so Sherlock span to a halt, glaring at him.

"What? What is it? You have been trying to ask me something for the last ten minutes."

Lestrade laughed and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck and through his hair, hand sliding down his face as he laughed. "It's just...I never thought of all people."

"What!" he knew he was shouting but he didn't care. The heavily breathing man nearby even nudged his friend so he could listen in too.

"What was with that _hug_ Sherlock? Or the way you get so worried about him? Or the fact you are even living with the guy?"

Sherlock shook his head; he didn't want him to know. Nobody needed to know. Not yet. (To present an unformed idea, something he hadn't mapped out clearly was reprehensible.)

"I don't know what you mean." His voice sounded confused, angry and frustrated. He almost smirked he was so proud of himself.

"You care about him don't you. You actually _care _about John."

Sherlock froze; he wasn't sure if admitting he did meant that the DI would know he (thought he) loved him or whether he meant it as a friend. He didn't know and it made him mad so he frowned, crossing his arms and picking up the pace of his furious strides.

Lestrade sighed rolled his eyes and reached out grabbing him by the arms, stopping his furious steps. "You do realise it is okay to be human sometimes?"

He groaned that last thing he needed was this, he just wanted to go home. To be working on a case with John again. "He is my friend."

Lestrade grinned and let him go "See wasn't so bad was it." Glancing down at his watch he was still looking at the detective oddly (people were always doing that.) he gestured with his head. "C'mon he should be ready to go."

John was tucking into a bag of crisps when they rounded the curtain into his little cubicle, leg propped up on a strut as it dried. He had clearly had a wash, his face and hands clean of the grime smiling and chatting to the nurse. "Yes I made the radio but it was Sherlock that saved me really. He worked out where I was by the siren of the building site next to me."

The nurse had a hand to her mouth and was staring at him like John was some sort of hero. He was, he was Sherlock's hero. (As cheesy as it sounded and negating the hero aspect it was true, John was **his** and he didn't want some stupid nurse getting her claws in him.)

Sherlock whipped round the edge into the small space.

"Sherlock."

John was smiling up at him with honest joy and the detective felt himself grin in return (Without having to actually force it. Another thing John had the strange power to do.)

"Regaling the staff with tales of your dashing escape John?"

The doctor blushed. "She asked!"

The detective just waved a hand to shush him and perched on the little plastic stool by the bedside. John made eye contact, a goofy smile on his face, pupils quite small. "Ah I see you are on painkillers."

"Not everyone can just ignore the pain Sherlock."

John smiled hazily at him and in that moment he couldn't breathe.

He loved him, it was as true as it was back at the flat and yet now here in his presence he felt it more heavily than before, his heart thudding against his chest entire brain focussed on that face, his shining eyes, the gloss of his hair, the smooth skin of his jaw, the simple strong poise of his shoulders.

"And they are lesser men for it."

John snorted and the nurse raised an eyebrow at Lestrade who just shook his head stepping out of the cubicle mumbling something about giving them some time.

Sherlock dipped his head, something had been niggling at his brain since they had left the building site. "You _hugged_ me."

He gazed across at the doctor and John slumped back staring at the ceiling his face decidedly less cheerful but not sad or blank. Just calm. "Yes Sherlock, you saved me so I hugged you. Is there a problem?"

He paused and narrowed his eyes. Yes there was. "You didn't ask first..."

"You don't always have to."

"Oh."

John turned his head and sighed reaching up to tap the plaster.

"Look, sometimes if you really want or need a hug and you think the other person wouldn't mind you can just hug them. You don't have to ask all the time."

Another tap tap tap and he lifted the leg gingerly off the stand placing it on the floor as he span on his backside so both legs had swung over to hang off the edge of the bed. "Hmm, it should be dry enough now. Can you get me the crutches?"

John got shakily to his feet leaning on the unplastered leg, and gesturing to the corner. Sherlock stood as if to get them and then paused, turning and staring down at his friend. He tilted his head to the side and ducked down, grasping the doctor gently around the waist to pull him up a little so his face could brush past John's cheeks and his neck. His body was soft, but with an underlying sturdiness that was...incorrigible.

He held this pose for a second breathing in deeply, a slight chemical tang to Johns familiar soft cotton citrus smell and Johns arms just dangled over his in shock, a soft sigh in his ear and then he let go moving to the corner and grasping the crutches in one hand. John was blushing slightly (it rather suited him) and Sherlock smiled handing them over careful not to maintain too much contact on his fingers as he passed them over.

At home Mrs. Hudson bustled around the doctor fussing his hair and making endless pots and cups of tea, sandwiches placed on the table just in case until finally Sherlock had enough of her wittering and threw himself at his sofa, wrapping his arms around himself and rolling to face the back of it. He heard John chuckle and Mrs. Hudson seemed to whisper to him, the detective straining to hear.

"Oh dear. What's gotten in Sherlock?"

"I don't know, could be anything. Perhaps you should go. Thank you for everything."

She sighed and he could hear the smile in it. Dammit he would not be jealous of Mrs. Hudson of all people, how was it that John was so polite to her? He could be outright rude to Sherlock at the drop of a hat. (Although perhaps it was that John had all but ignored him, talking to the landlady and drinking his endless cups of tea listening to her chatter instead. He didn't want to admit it was that.)

He heard her pause behind him and a hand sort of skimmed his arm.

"Do cheer up Sherlock."

And she was gone, kitten heels tapping down the stairs. (His work required him to know about all sorts of shoes and footwear.) He could hear Johns breathing from here and then a soft sigh. "Sherlock?" the detective didn't want to turn around, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he knew this would be bad. "Sherlock, I know you're listening."

He rolled over landing on the floor with measured grace, his bony backside colliding with the floor heavily and he stared across at his friend. "Yes?"

John stared at him, a funny sort of expression in his eyes, hand resting on his knee. "I might need a bit more help around here. With my leg in plaster I can't go running around after you."

"How long must you have the cast?"

"Six weeks."

The detective froze, staring aghast at him. "Six weeks! But what am I supposed to do without you for six weeks?"

John smirked blushing a little and shaking his head. "I'm sure you will manage."

The weather took a definitive turn for the worst that weekend and the heaters in the flat (a late and temperamental addition Mrs. Hudson informed the shivering detective) added little to the overall freezing temperature inside. Sherlock took to wearing his coat at all times, John similarly wrapped up in two jumpers and his coat, a scarf (Sherlock's) wrapped around his neck.

The detective lay stretched out on the sofa one night, his room having had a window blown out( a small experiment that he felt went exceedingly well) unfortunately the minor explosion from his experiments had been slightly less minor than he had predicted sending the small weight he had been using flying through a pane of his window.

John had boarded it up with cardboard but it did almost nothing to stop the wind whistling through at night. The detective had instead dragged his duvet to his sofa and had lain there shivering and shuffling for the better part of an hour when he heard the tell tale thump, step, thump, step of John and his leg coming down the stairs.

"Sherlock."

The detective sat bolt right up and John blinked at him, a smile finding its way into his eyes. The detective was wearing one of Johns hideous knitted hats.(John had explained he used to have a old lady as a neighbour who insisted on knitting him the atrocities. He couldn't bear to throw them away it seemed.)

Watson put his hands on his hips, wearing pyjama bottoms, a thick flannel tee and a pale blue jumper he looked decidedly more comfortable then Sherlock was, here on the sofa, even with his quilt.

"Sherlock, it is too cold for you to be here. I think if we use your duvet and mine we might be able to get warm enough to sleep."

Sherlock frowned, John was really suggesting that they shared a bed... he was on his feet and at the door in a second, memory still fresh with that night at the hospital. John put a hand on his chest to stop him passing, it lingered there for a moment and Sherlock continued pressing hoping he would assume the detective was trying to get past and keep his fingers and that palm against his chest.

"Take that damn hat off first."

Sherlock grinned and reached up whipping it off his head and flinging it across the room. John watched it sail over the chairs and turned back laughing.

"Okay."

Once they reached the room Sherlock felt John hesitate at the door and decided perhaps it were better he just did what was necessary. He strode forwards flinging his duvet over Johns and slipping between the sheets. John hovered for a second before padding around the bed and getting in his side. Again they lay like two plastic dolls, semi-articulated limbs held straight next to their hips.

Sherlock sighed and shuffled down (and to the side) the duvet still slightly warm from John's body heat. He felt the doctor do the same until they were lying side by side, arms pushed up against each other, legs brushing and Sherlock blinked into the sheets ( and in a moment where he couldn't seem to control himself) reaching out a hand and putting it on top of Johns.

The doctor froze and Sherlock went to pull away but was stopped by firm strong fingers around his own, interlocking with his. He grinned unashamedly and fought the urge to look. He wasn't sure why but this felt important, a **pivotal** moment.

He lay like that for an hour, Johns breathing indicating he had fallen asleep and so finally the detective could look. He was sure that this feeling, the fact that when he looked at him, heard his voice it seemed right, soothing and exciting at the same time. John was strange, a person he couldn't quite figure out, he always thought he had him down and then the man would take a sharp turn and everything would come crashing down. It was as irritating as it was endearing.

But he couldn't be sure that it was love, he couldn't be sure and yet he really wanted it to be. To have finally experienced such a wide ranging and noted emotion, a resoundingly _human_ emotion. It would be the jewel in his cap, not to mention judging (and of course again he couldn't be sure. Inexperience was highly debilitating) by Johns actions he seemed to hold no small amount of affection for him in return.

He squirmed where he lay, his stomach was flipping and Johns hand felt heavy in his. He certainly liked the idea that John could love him back, if that was what it was. He resolved to ask the internet the next day; for now he would simply concentrate on this one solid warming connection with what could be the love of his life.

When he awoke the next day, John had discarded most of his clothes as the duvet had heated up leaving him in just a thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, hand now joined by his arm. It appeared John had wrapped himself around Sherlock's arm in the night, their joined hands pressed between his knees, the short blonde hair of his head scrubbing against Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective turned his head and smiled, he was hot very very hot and yet he couldn't move. He didn't want to. So he waited and waited and waited until his eyes began to drop and he fell once more into his dreams. The next time he woke John was gone and Sherlock sighed slipping from the bed.

Judging from the sheets and the fact John had forgotten his slippers he must've rushed from the room, attempting to be silent so as not to wake his companion. When he went down that morning John wouldn't look at him, would barely even speak to him. It was confusing and it made him anxious so he left, he walked for miles and miles returning home in the small hours when John had gone to bed.

He decided to leave both duvets up there for him, instead sitting in his coat and scarf in the doctors chair, only moving come morning when he may be discovered there.

They spent the next three days in relative silence, only talking when they ran out of milk and even then Sherlock barely murmured a word. They didn't sleep in the same bed again; in fact it seemed that John was trying to create as much distance between them as possible. Sherlock was left to lie on the sofa, dreaming of a new case anything to get his mind off the fact that he didn't know what to do, how to ask what he did wrong.

He scowled at the ceiling and John would come and go, sometimes staring at the back of the detectives head for a few seconds before continuing with his activities. He was brooding, he knew it but it wasn't a concern. All he wanted was to talk to John again, to understand why everything had suddenly changed. What could he do to fix it?

Then on the fourth day he felt a slight pressure on his arm (having remained on the sofa for 89% of the last 24 hours) and rolled over to see John, a slight apologetic smile on his face. "Sherlock. I have something for you."

The detective rolled over and managed to twists himself so John was standing between his legs, leaning slightly to the side so his plastered foot knocked against Sherlock's lower leg. (He would only admit to himself that he was attempting to create as much contact as possible. It had been a barren few days.)

He looked up and the doctor was biting his lip, eye flickering up and down for a second before he buried a hand inside his jacket. He pulled out a manila folder holding it out for the detective with a shrug. Sherlock was wary and took it from him pulling out the sheaths of paper to read through carefully, glancing at the poorly taken pixelated crime scene photos.

When he was done he looked up, a smile growing on his face and John shrugged again. "I know you don't have any cases so..."

Sherlock grinned and suddenly got to his feet, his legs planted on either side of John, hips brushing and he pulled him in for a brief two second hug, turning and striding past to find his phone. A case, a shiny new interesting case. He found the phone next to John on the mantelpiece and texted Lestrade.

Blue case. Come at once. SH

He span around to find John was still stood where he had left him, a strange dazed expression on his face. "John?"

The doctor flinched and crossed the room, dropping into his chair. "Did you text Lestrade?" His voice was distant, distracted.

"You know I did."

He was silent for a long minute and then he looked up eyes wide and honest. "I'm just sorry I can't tag along with this one."

Sherlock's smile dimmed and he looked away, striding to the window to stare out. "Yes well... I'm sure I will manage." His fingers were pulling at the curtains in a vain attempt to appear nonchalant when in fact the reminder at he wouldn't have John there, to listen to his deductions, to be amazed by them, by _him._ Well it was going to be awful.

Still, Lestrade text him back asking to meet at the morgue and Sherlock agreed. Nodding his goodbye to the doctor as he sprinted from the flat. Lestrade was stood at the entrance to Bart's, talking on his phone and Sherlock waited for almost an entire minute, pacing around and around the DI in frustration. Finally he got fed up and pulled the phone from the shorter man holding the phone to his ear.

"I am sorry. Lestrade is busy right now can he call you back."

He used his best cheery voice and hung up putting the phone in the DI's outstretched hand. He shook his head and without a word strode ahead into the building leaving Sherlock blinking after him for a second.

The body was of a middle aged male, probably a security guard although he couldn't be sure since the uniform had been stripped away. He face was stained blue, probably with your typical spray paint, post mortem. Sherlock walked around the body a few times gathering his data, Lestrade talking quietly to Molly in the background. He looked up and they went silent instantly.

Sherlock smirked, instant respect for his work. He liked that.

"Stabbed in a frenzied unplanned attack, probably in an effort to gain access to what he was guarding. As for the..._additions_, simply the hallmark of this particular gang."

Lestrade sighed, "Wait...you are saying this was the work of a gang? You are telling me we have some sort of murderous thieving gang running about London with a ridiculous MO and no bloody leads."

This man was an imbecile.

"Well...I wouldn't say that. Whatever he was guarding will tell me who killed him."

"How do you know it was a gang!"

"Hm, oh obvious several different entry points, two short sharp bladed knives and what appears to be a large hunting knife, the hunting knife belongs to the more experienced, taller attacker whilst the two shorter blades belong to two men of a similar height, one right and one left handed."

Sherlock waved a hand over the various wounds; it was all plain to see really. Boring.

Lestrade got a call and left the room, leaving him with Molly. She had returned to her usual behaviour patterns once again and was now inching across the room to stand by him. She glanced up and he made eye contact with her.

"How is John?"

He was taken aback, normally she forgot his name. "He is fine..."

"I heard he broke his leg."

"Oh yes, yes he was stamped on actually."

"Oh. I am sorry." She said that strangely placing a hand on his arm and then removing it when Lestrade burst back through the door.

"Sherlock. There's been another one."

"Same gallery?"

"No a bank this time."

Sherlock nodded and Molly let out a sigh, walking around the body with a gentle pat to the dead man's hand. "Sherlock, don't forget his clothes..." She smiled up at him and Sherlock knew something had changed; although the dumb admiration was there she seemed less...forthright about it.

How distinctly odd.

The detective nodded and grabbed the large bag filled with photographs of the scene and the dead man's effects as they could be useful later.

The taxi ride over to the crime scene was uneventful, until of course (this being London.) they got stuck in a traffic Jam. Lestrade grumbling in unison with the driver. Sherlock looked to him, the man he had worked with for so many years, who allowed him (and when he said allowed he meant acted like he was Sherlock's father and doled him a pittance of interesting cases) to work on so many cases.

He knew much about Lestrade and before John he was considered the closest person to the detective. "Lestrade."

"What?"

He just blinked, irritating really that a man with much more limited deductive powers had such a wider grasp of other more... previously irrelevant subjects. "Have you ever been in love?"

Lestrade's eyebrows made a mad dash for his hairline and he shook his head, grinning. "Sherlock what is this about?"

"I am merely trying to understand the motive behind the abstract concept of love. It is a extreme motivator and if I can understand it more deeply than perhaps I can spot it more easily." (He ignored the fact that he used a similar speech when explaining to John why had wanted a hug. His motives in that aspect were also left completely from the explanation.)

Lestrade rolled his eyes and titled his head, slumping back with a languished air of a person with knowledge that exceeded his companion.

"Yeah actually I have."

"I see. In what ways did it affect you?"

"Are you honestly asking me to explain what love feels like, real _romantic_ love?"

Sherlock nodded and Lestrade looked out of the window, a glazed expression on his face. "Sherlock to love someone means that you not only accept what is flawed about them but you embrace it, it is when just being in their presence makes you happier it's just being happy with them, in the absence of everything else in the world..."

Lestrade continued his speech but Sherlock was only half listening now, now he was watching the threads in his mind connecting Lestrade's words with what he felt for John. It had solidified, he **was** in love with John it was definite, and he was sure of it.

A smile worked its way across his face and Lestrade speech came to an end. "Of course, you already knew that didn't you."

Sherlock smiled dropped. "Pardon?"

"You, you know what love is like. I know you think I'm an idiot Sherlock but even I can see what's going on with you and John."

Sherlock frowned. Had Lestrade worked it out, how long had he known? "Me and John?"

"You are in love with him aren't you?"

He said it as though he was reminding a forgetful schoolboy to bring his workbook to class. As though it was obvious that the boy had forgotten and yet again needed reminding. Sherlock tilted his chin up, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"You aren't going to admit it?"

"What I do is irrelevant. What you do inspector is very important."

Lestrade frowned, Sherlock's tone was frosty, a rather harsh timbre to it. "Look, its okay I'm not going to tell him or anything. That is your business."

The detective was feeling peculiar, he felt angry that Lestrade had beaten him to a deduction, specifically one that concerned his own person and he was worried. He did not want John to discover Sherlock's new found emotions until he had managed to get a handle on them, to study the course of regular romantic relationships and to understand what the relevant steps were.

He gazed into the DI's eyes and found that he wasn't lying, he was (although partial to some acts of revenge or malicious means of control over the detective) trustworthy.

"Thank you."

Lestrade grinned unexpectedly and laughed, shaking his head. "So you are admitting it then?"

"Yes."

"Oh wow...wow this is brilliant. The great Sherlock Holmes is in _love._ I can imagine it now, picnics in the park, romantic boat rides, a weekend in Paris..."

The DI was now hunched over gasping for breath and quivering as he was racked with glee. Sherlock in contrast was frozen in place eyes wide, face pale. Was that what was expected of him? He didn't know how to go about organising such things and he certainly didn't know if John would appreciate them...

Suddenly they began moving again and Lestrade wept quietly in the corner, wiping a tear from his eyes and glancing to the detective before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

It was rather irritating.

"You're school reunion went well then."

Lestrade's giggles stopped and he blinked confused at the detective. "What? How can you possibly..."

Sherlock smirked and looked out of the window. That's better.

It was snowing now, in the bitterly cold wind that seemed to collect in the road, dusting the crowded onlookers with white dust that made them seem evermore the prying children, morbid fascination clouding their better judgement as they moved and strained to see past the police cordon and catch the barest glimpse of the body that lay beyond.

Female this time, young, probably no older than thirty five, long style blonde hair, non-prescription glasses lay nearby and the body was dressed in a sharp suit. She was pretending, pretending to be something she wasn't.

An insider for the gang then, working at the bank.

Perhaps she had a change of heart and so was killed...although he would need further proof. Sherlock dove down, noting his deductions thus far, his mind stuttering when they weren't met with an enthusiastic comment. It was oddly empty without John's presence and so Sherlock immersed himself with the body, she had lost a lot of weight recently, new hair, new clothes, new makeup, new life, _a boring_ life.

And yet...a tattoo on her exposed hip a rabbit of some sort. Luminous blue shoes that didn't match her outfit and of course a warped rabbit mask, spray painted blue and placed post mortem on her face. Clearly some form of calling card, the mask was absent from the man although blue traces were found on his face.

The mask had been removed in that case but why? Why had that man...but of course he had still been alive when the police arrived, the mask thrown out of the way by do gooders attempting to save a life. Still it was interesting and Sherlock stood, hands clasped behind his back.

"This woman was a member of your gang, it appeared she had a change of heart and in recompense for that she paid the price. I believe the thieves were attempting to gain access to the vaults which contain some extremely valuable paintings. She wouldn't have been working alo-" he trailed off, his eyes landing on the crowd in the distance.

Just over the shoulders of the police he could see staff members filing back into the building (the financial business had little time to care about some silly murder.) one man, dressed sharply in a well cut suit, slicked back brown hair and odd bright blue glasses. In fact looking at the other men he stood out singularly, his eyes meeting Sherlock's.

The detective frowned and the man suddenly turned pushing his way back through his colleagues and outside. Sherlock jumped over the body, sprinting after him, he skidded out into the street spotting the man further up the road just as he turned the corner and followed, ignoring the protesting yell of Lestrade behind him.

He rounded the corner spotting the retreating mans back and sped up, pushing past angry men in suits and fierce woman who shouted as he forced his way past. The man was getting away before turning sharply down an alley, Sherlock not far behind. He flew around the corner and ran down the alley but the man was gone, nowhere to be seen.

His footprint left in a small puddle of mud and that was it.

Sherlock leant on his knees gasping for breath when he felt someone coming up behind him. He stood and whipped around, tackling the man to the ground. The man was smiling at him, a handsome grin that glinted in the dim lights. He head felt strange, his limbs growing heavy and he reached up plucking the needle from his neck and throwing it at the man, slumping against the wall. A black van pulled up beside them and Sherlock was hauled to his feet, dragged in tandem with the sharp suited man into the back of a van, a demonic blue rabbit painted on the side.

He watched in horror as they took away his phone, injecting him again. A second dose, probably to keep him unconscious on the trip to wherever they would hold him. His body's resistance to narcotics was beginning to wane and he felt the black cloud descend on himself. The image of the sneering man in the suit loomed above him, the black smoke surrounding the figure and as he dropped into the darkness he let out a whimper, his mind confused by the drugs.

If he could just call out, just say his name then he would be saved, he would _save_ him.

"Joh-"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Wow guys you are the best. What can I say? I hope you like this; I hope I didn't waffle too much. Reviews would be ****magnifique****.**

He woke in a sparse bedroom, window boarded up, bare walls with torn paisley wallpaper. From the creak of the floorboards as he rolled over and the warped windowsill he concluded he was in some Victorian or possibly earlier buildings. The ceiling was impressively high and in his drug addled brain he wondered that if he stood he would grow and grow and reach that ceiling, touch the mottled paintwork. (It looked sop pleasing to touch after all.)

But no, he was to stay here, make friends with his groaning creaking companions as he rolled onto his stomach. The wrought iron bed next to him looked appealing but he knew the floorboards would despise him for leaving; besides his limbs were too heavy to lift him so why was he even considering it? The floor creaked and he smiled rubbing his face against the cool smooth wood, in fact it felt as though he was sinking through them, surrounded by the skin prickling freshness of it all.

The door thumped open somewhere behind him and he heard a vague mumble, someone was talking to him. Probably. There was another harsher mumbling sound and suddenly his exposed hip was struck, a sullen thumping kick as the muscles clenched in unison. (He recognised the feeling but he couldn't place it, it was simply familiar.)

He supposed vaguely that that hurt quite a bit but his mind was already floating away and he was struck again, a thump of his muscles deadened nerves. He managed to scramble to his feet, that dull thump sending some sort of renewed energy to his aching muscles and he could see the tazer being proffered at him like a chair to a lion. Ah, that was why it was familiar.

He raised his hands and gave the man a wry grin. It was the brown haired man from before his silken locks now swept to the side, brown eyes and bow lips. He seemed oddly to Sherlock like some sort of male model, a useful trait if one wants to enter the world of crime.(Studies show after all that a attractive person was less likely to be suspected and more likely to be forgiven for a crime.)

But that was irrelevant because now his hands were being handcuffed behind his back, wobbling legs pushed forwards so he walked (or stumbled) through elegant Victorian wallpapered rooms, dim lights and glinting silverware on his way to a much larger much more open room. Here he was led to an odd sort of standing up table in the pitch black darkness and dutifully allowed his limbs to be attached, he was secured arms out to his sides, legs planted firmly on the rests, eyes blearily blinking out to see past the metre circle of light he was bathed in like a beacon from god. Not that god existed... or at least if he did then Sherlock certainly wouldn't be on top of his list for a religious mission.

He would only get bored.

His mind began to wander, flashing images of the murders he had seen, interesting deductions he had missed at the time, later revealed closing a case succinctly. It was this he craved, he didn't want to be stuck on some bloody table and besides, it was boring.

Here in the silent dark, well not as silent as you would expect the faint trembles of honky tonk blues filtering thorough what he assumed was wood panelled walls judging by the tone and timbre of the music floating through. It was clearly driving him mad, to be alone like this with just his mind for company because he was sure he had heard a voice, but did not feel a presence.

"Mr. Holmes is it?"

A woman, youngish probably no older than twenty five, her voice had a slight metallic tang and Sherlock realised was coming from above him. A speaker then. He frowned and glanced up, there was a blinking red dot, obviously a camera.

"Where am I?"

"Why would I tell you that?"

"Not many Victorian manors in London these days."

"I know, lovely place isn't it. I do hate the modern sense of style. So very ... bland." Said much as though she thought the word style was in fact just another word for _filth_.

"Indeed. "

"I suppose you are wondering why you are here?"

"One of your people spotted me investigating a murder of yours."

"Oh no, not at all. We have been aware of you Mr. Holmes and your..._friend,_ Doctor Watson for quite a while now. It was less a matter of if you came across us rather than when. I have had time to make preparations."

"You mean this is all just for me. How touching."

"I would have liked to get the whole set in one go but..."

"The whole set?"

Suddenly Sherlock's skin felt extremely cold, a lurching in his stomach.

"Well yes. Can't have the inimitable Sherlock Holmes without his good doctor Watson can we? It would be like splitting Ant and Dec or Kirk and Spock. Impossible."

He wasn't sure who Ant and Dec were but he had seen an episode of something John had called star trek. Almost childish glee on his face as he watched Sherlock watch the TV, nervous glances when anything unbelievable or impossible happened.

**John**.

She was talking about getting John, taking him too. Sherlock growled a sublime polysyllable threat but he heard nothing in reply. His rage wasted and he let it wash over him, ebbing away like the waves.

An insurmountable time later the sharply dressed man returned and untied him, supporting him roughly as his legs slipped out from under him. (An effect of the drug and nothing to do with the fact his mind had fixated on the possibility John was in danger too.)

"Madam has asked me to tend to you. You may have anything you wish to eat or drink."

Sherlock frowned and leant into the man, he was warm and Sherlocks skin felt oddly cold, a sweat icy on his brow. "Mm. Don't need to eat. John I want John."

"I am sorry he isn't due to arrive until tomorrow sir. My name is Bossley; do not hesitate to ask sir."

He was pushed backwards, knees hitting the bed and he slammed backward wincing as his head bumped against the wall. He lay like this for a minute (panting. He couldn't remember why) before scrabbling to pull the obscenely thick sheets around himself, shivering as he surveyed his captor. He room swam before him, Bossley's head seemed to be much larger than was humanly possible and his clothes were shimmering. It was intensely distracting.

Bossley seemed oddly polite now, obviously in the absence of orders he was allowed to enact his own more nefarious means than his master would normally allow. "You must eat sir. Madam insisted you are well fed."

Sherlock shook his head and Bossley sighed tilting his head before exiting the room, flowing graceful footsteps that wouldn't have been out of place on stage in the royal ballet.

Sherlock didn't know how long it took him to return but in the time he had a rather fiery argument with the floorboards who stared up at him accusingly. The drugs had mostly worn off if not for the dull thump in his mind and hip and a vague sense that perhaps he shouldn't be arguing with inanimate objects. (The fact he was aware that it probably wasn't a good idea meant he was at least gaining back some modicum of sanity).

Bossley flitted back through the door, unlocking it as if by magic and placing a sandwich and a glass of something cloudy on the small table next to the bed. "I have been informed that you must eat, and if you continue to refuse...I am to force you."

He said this with a blank face apart from the glint in his eye at the word 'force'. Sherlock sighed and sluggishly reached out a hand stuffing the damp tasting bread into his mouth, choking around the cold slimy slice of processed ham, it took him forever but he ate it all. Finishing it off with the tall icy glass of powdered lemonade that clung to his teeth and made his stomach feel bloated, full of water, the butler glaring at him as he swallowed.

Bossley sighed and nodded when he was done the dull shine of his eyes making Sherlock feel queasy and he rolled over, staring out across the room at those wooden boards. Light filtered between the cracks and his mind wandered over the various ways he would describe this experience to the doctor. (He decided mentioning his drug riddled observations were to be downplayed.)

The doctor, ah the doctor he must do something, must get a message to him before they can take him...but then did he _need _Sherlock? John was already hyper aware of safety and since Sherlock had explained how inconvenient his kidnapping habit was he had been extra vigilant, ferocious almost. He could look after himself for sure. Ever the solider, he would defiantly not go down without a fight, especially if Sherlock had gone missing. He vaguely wondered whether John was worried about him, or if he simply acknowledged it as though it were a regular occurrence, just one of the detective's quirks.

He whimpered into the pillow, his stomach hurt, his hip was bruised his head ached and now, now he just wanted to hold John. To have him look at him in that odd fond way when he had done something particularly amazing (which was often) and hug him, surround him in the warmth and softness he had only just become familiar with.

The need for human contact had never stuck him before John and now it did he despised it. What had the doctor _done_ to him? Before he was untouchable, no weaknesses and now he had just one, a Achilles heel all of his own.

Sherlock sniffed, he was cold, so cold and he curled up under the thick sheets letting his eyes slide closed as his mind repeated those words back to himself over and over(so cold, it's so cold very cold cold cold cold...)

The next morning he was woken by Bossley who prodded him hard in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. A nick from his sharp nails trickling a fat bead of blood down into his collar. "Wake up. Madam wishes to speak with you."

Sherlock sighed, his muscles felt tired and achy and yet beneath his skin he could feel the adrenaline thrumming, he was stronger now, without the drugs he could move he could run he could think. He stood briskly and Bossley smirked coldly at him a hand coming out to smear the blood on his neck around, Sherlock went to move away but thin fingers gripped him in place and a needle appeared in his other hand.

"Must have your medicine Mr Holmes."

Sherlock ducked away but the butler was quick footed and darted to intercept him, the ever locked door tantalisingly close and even more tantalisingly open. The needle prodded into his skin and he felt the pulse of pressure as the fluid was forced in, taking just under a minute to take effect, his legs seeming to disappear beneath him, the world taking on that fuzzy buzzing picture again.

The dull thrum of his heart beat yet again ringing in his ears and he attempted a glare at Bossley who smiled wide, hands slipping down Sherlock's flanks as he pulled him up off the floor. Handcuffed again he was led the path to the room, pitch black as always the table lit with spotlight.

Sherlock let his eyes slide shut in an effort to stop the thumping of his mind, the images that flashed of Bossley's face, the pin prick stain of tea on his tie, the faint traces of it on his breath (odd now he thought that the scent of tea on Johns breath had tempted him so where here he felt himself dry heave), the strange fluid way he moved.

It was agonising, every detail of the man his wicked thoughts written clear on his face as he tied up the detective, tracing a finger over his cheekbone when the speaker crackled overhead.

"Jeeves, enough. This one isn't for you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, she had gotten his name wrong and Bossley's easy smile slipped replaced with a bitter glare at the speaker, fingers pinching Sherlocks arm as he passed, grumbling under his breath.

"It's Bossley you stupid bitch."

"I can hear you Bossley. Get in here."

The butler blushed deeply and stopped in his tracks, hesitating before his footsteps disappeared behind Sherlock and into the gloom, Sherlock sure he had heard the creaking of a door but he couldn't be certain.

It appeared that his captors forgot about him and Sherlock watched dust bounce and dance in the spotlight around him. His mind wandered and he imagined he was standing atop the dust, swirling and dancing to the rhythm. His subconscious helpfully added another dust mote which floated to his and Sherlock watched as tiny Sherlock and tiny John danced with each other, floating gracefully through the air. Tiny-John was beaming; warm twinkles in his eyes and the detective grinned. Chopin wavering thinly across the warming air, John's favourite. His skin was still cold but he knew it was warm in this dark room because tiny John was removing his jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up as their dance grew more and more fierce. He gasped in delight as they spun off into the sky, nodding his head as he couldn't wave.

Suddenly the table spun around and Sherlock winced at the metallic streak, shocks of pain moving up and down his spine. He blinked out blearily to find some dark shape; his good mood dissipating instantly and he concluded the object was perhaps a wingback chair or small ornate cupboard.

He needn't have thought about it because a moment later it too was flooded in clinical white light. Sherlock screwed up his eyes and shook his head. The drugs had clearly messed with his mind to the point he had gone insane. There was in fact a wingback chair (in a plush deep purple that he rather liked. But that's inconsequential) and sitting on its plump cushions was what appeared to be a blue rabbit puppet in a tweed suit, complete with a monocle, its slender hands steeped together, eyes half lidded and earnest.

It reminded Sherlock of the psychologist his parents insisted he visit as a child. He had been just as wooden, a marionette that twitched and jolted as its strings were pulled. The rabbit was made of varnished wood, the tiny string(he had no doubt existed) were invisible in the light and to his fevered mind it seemed that this wooden puppet was alive, fixing him with a calm and calculated stare.

"Mr Holmes."

Its mouth flapped perfectly in time to the voice from above his head and Sherlock regarded it carefully. "A puppet."

"Not quite. This is who I am Mr. Holmes. You may call me Radish."

"Radish. Appropriate."

The puppets eyes closed for a second and then opened again, head shaking slightly as a soft chuckle of laughter washed over him. "Thank you."

Another light turned on and stood next to the chair was in fact a stuffed dodo in a top hat. Sherlock laughed, his brain was so loud shouting and talking too quickly for him to understand but he heard its fevered whisper as the bird was revealed. Looks like _Mycroft_, stuffed expression and all.

It stared blankly through its glass eyes, Bossley's voice emitting from what appeared to be a speaker under its hat. "Madam is this really necessary, he has already seen me." He sounded frustrated, thinly veiled with a simpering long suffering tone.

"Oh Jenkins, where is your sense of theatre. I do love your proxy, he is so distinguished."

There was a pause and then Bossley replied, a defeated note to his voice. "Yes maam."

Sherlock watched the exchange between the marionette and the stuffed bird his head spinning nicely, the rabbit clapped his hands together and reached out patting the dodo on the side of its beak. "Good man. Now about our guest." It turned back, hands steeped again, gaze fixed on the detective who grinned hazily at it.

"Mr Holmes, I do apologise but there have been some complications."

"You couldn't catch John then." His heart was racing, he could feel the pounding in his throat and he smiled. Of course they wouldn't catch him.

"Precisely. Now since I already have you I thought its best to as exactly how much you know of my little team and what your intentions would be should I let you go." The rabbit placed its hands on its legs and tilted its head at him. Sherlock glanced at the dodo but this time it simply gazed ever onwards. Stoic and faithful.

"I know that you are the leader of a sizable group of thieves, specialising in artwork and valuable jewellery. You kill those who get in your way, and use rabbit masks and blue spray-paint to mark your targets as a warning other possible defectors. A cliché and predictable eccentricity. The puppet master in this case is a female, welsh, aged between twenty and twenty five, intelligent but would be considered somewhat odd."

"You certainly know a lot Mr. Holmes."

"My intention would be to inform the police of your whereabouts and actions."

"Well we can't have that can we."

Sherlock stayed silent he just rolled his eyes and looked away across the black expanse. She sounded angry now, her calm steady voice raising an octave, a bitter tone. He heard something knocking from inside the speaker and everything went silent.

He hung there, his mind still reeling from the strange puppet, its light shutting off and leaving him alone again. After a while he even began to miss the blank stare of its plastic eyes, the room echoing with each breath and in the distance he could hear thumping and shouting, from the faint arch of voices nearby through the wooden walls.

He let his head fall to his chest; his skin was still as cold as before, clothes beginning to smell stomach acing and empty. He was confused, the drug pushed into him so potent that his mind seemed to gabble, rushing over and over how cold he was and then it whispered the word John and Sherlock closed his eyes letting the images fill his mind until he could almost smell the doctors, feel the warmth of his arms, the crinkles on the edges of his eyes when he smiled.

John would have to find a new roommate Sherlock reasoned, his brain so addled by the drug that he couldn't conceive an escape, he was stuck forever replaying the haunted images of his colleague, his friend, like a looped film in his mind.

He barely noticed when Bossley returned, dragging him off the table and hauling him, hands under his armpits, back to his room.(He seemed unnaturally strong and the detective decided he either practiced a lot of yoga or trained in the martial arts. Possibly gymnastics.)

Sherlock didn't even open his eyes when he felt sharp nails dragging at his skin, the butler clearly revelling in the moments he had alone with his prisoner. Sherlock winced, crying out when scrabbling nails gripped him tightly, drawing blood in thin lines on his hips. Bossley smirked and pulled something from his pocket. It was a large hunting knife that glinted in the light, flicking it between his hands with a practised air. (That explained the more confident stab wounds in the victim.)

"Madam said I'm not allowed to give you anymore medicine so soon. She doesn't want you to lose that pretty little mind of yours. So we have to find other ways to keep you in line don't we."

He grinned; fangs bared, eyes shining like black pebbles in his handsome face. The knife dove down and a sharp clean cut was made in his arm, shallow but enough to send sparks of white hot pain into his dazed mind. Sherlock gasped and the butler sneered lifting him up to lean against his chest as they crouched on the floor.

He smelt of metal, and starch and his skin was cold (almost slimy) to the touch. The butler hugged Sherlock to his chest whispering into his ear, tongue darting out and the detective shivered as it bushed the skin of his neck. He feebly tried to get up but the man's arms were strong and he held him there, slicing a button off his(actually quite expensive shirt. But now was not the time to be worried about that) shirt with the knife and then dragging it slowly down his chest, a faint pink line left in its wake.

Sherlock began to shiver, he had only eaten that sandwich for two days at least and now his empty stomach was lurching and he threw up, just bile a strange grass like colour. The foul stench made him retch dryly; it seeped into his clothes and his skin, burning in its unexpected heat. Bossley tutted and stood up abruptly avoiding the rancid liquid, Sherlock's head slamming down against the floorboards that cracked like a whip...or was that his skull.

He blacked out.

This time when he awoke he was already on the table, his head pounding so much he couldn't open his eyes, skin tingling and stinging when he attempted to move his mouth. It seemed the butler had continued to cut him, although he could not smell the iron stench of blood, nor in fact the bitter tang of bile... he cracked open a swollen lid and glanced down. He had been changed into a poorly fitted white shirt, skin scrubbed clean and still pink from what must've been scolding hot water.

His skin felt dry and tight, the tell tale throb of his face telling him he probably had a black eye or two and his lip was certainly split. Sherlock sighed, he was a mess. But his mind was clear...clearer than before although his inner voice was weak, hoarse from overuse.

He glanced around both eyes open. The room was flooded with light through two enormous windows and from here he could see a grand garden, neat hedges and flowerbeds, bees that buzzed over the plants and birds fighting for nesting rights in a low hanging tree. He looked around as much as his strained neck could allow. He was correct about the wood panelled walls; the room had the air of a study, bookcases lining three of the walls, a large patterned carpet on wooden floorboards and chintz furniture in classic Edwardian style dotted about him.

The space was immense and he blinked out across to the doorway. There were two identical heavy wooden doors to his right, one cracked open just slightly and he could see. He could see the room beyond. Just a sliver but it was enough, there was what appeared to be a roll top desk, a mirage of computer screens filled with text or moving images and the edge of a woman shoulder.

She had blue hair and if he strained he could hear her voice, doling out orders over a headset, her voice cold but rushed, an edge of panic and frustration that made him grin. Something was up. He blinked and she was gone, frowning and squinting at the space he sighed, all he could see were blank screens and suddenly there was a puff of air from his left and he snapped his head to find Bossley.

He was shaking his head, a large needle in his hand. "Tsk, should've got here sooner. I just needed you coherent for a minute."

Sherlock blinked at him and said nothing. "Tell me Mr. Holmes. Do you enjoy your medicine?" Sherlock didn't speak and Bossley whipped out a hand slapping him across the face without so much as a inch of movement above the shoulder. "Do you enjoy it?"

He sighed, might as well answer. "No."

"Then you will tell me how to catch this doctor of yours. Madam gets very upset when I fail to procure her collections, and she expects much from me. You see, we hadn't planned on getting you yet, but when I saw you at the bank I just couldn't resist."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, this Bossley character viewed himself some sort of master criminal by the tone he was using. "Well, congratulations' could not tell you how to get to John; I have never had to kidnap him before."

Bossley glared at him and punched him in the gut, **hard**. Sherlock mused aloft from his mind a sit detached from his body, something he had learnt to do over the years, detach from the pain.

"Maybe I won't collect him..."

The strong slender fingers were now gripping him by the neck and he screwed his eyes shut as hot breath puffed in his ear. "Maybe I will just kill him."

Sherlock let out a soft silent puff of breath (so close to being a whimper.) as he was violently brought back to his body. Pain flooded his every nerve and his muscles quaked with adrenaline and endorphins.

"I cannot tell you."

He was scratched by those nails and again by the needle as it plunged into his neck. "Then take your medicine."

He passed out, waking a few hours later to find some sort of IV had been inserted into his arm, all the lights were off this time and he could see about a foot in front of his face. There was not a sound and he sighed, blinking slowly as he gazed out into the never ending blackness.

"They will not get to you John."

He wasn't sure why he was speaking out loud but it seemed to help, slowing his brain down for a moment as it hummed in its intensity at the back of his skull. He could've sworn he heard a reply and when he blinked again he saw something moving out in the darkness. "John? Is that you?"

"It's me Sherlock."

He came into view, face serious and battle honed. But his eyes, his eyes were warm and sparkling and he smiled up at him, a hand reaching out to touch his bare chest beneath the shirt. Sherlock damned this drugs affect as he couldn't feel it, he couldn't feel the warm and the gentle roughness of his fingers on him.

"I knew you'd come."

"Of course I came Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock beamed at him and John stood up on his tiptoes wrapping his arms around the detective's neck to hug him tight. But he couldn't feel that either, he was numb. Sherlock sniffed in horror as a tear sped down his cheek, dropping onto his chest.

He felt it; he felt the heat of his salty tears as hey dripped onto his chest. "I'm numb. I can't feel you."

John stood back and frowned. "Well of course you can't."

Sherlock frowned in response and then it hit him. "I'm imagining you."

"Obviously. Maybe you should sleep. Big day tomorrow. Got to get out."

Sherlock nodded dumbly at his delusion.

"I love you."

"I love you." It echoed back to him before his eyes slid shut and he shivered into a fitful sleep.

Days past, a constant cycle of being moved between the bedroom and the table. (He suspected it had something to with whether the mistress was home or not.) Beatings and every other day he would be asked again how to get to John and he would refuse.

Then he got his medicine.

He hated it, it conjured up fantastical images of John, of Lestrade, memories long forgotten from his childhood of a very serious child- Mycroft playing with a post office toy, asking a even younger Sherlock for the exact change for the postcard he was buying only to pay to send it a moment later, slotting it through the little plastic slots on the large toy. He had forgotten Mycroft's enterprising games; he loved to take Sherlock for every penny, charging for this and that. Sherlock would repay him by kidnapping his beloved (and most secretive) teddy bear. Holding it hostage for increasing ransoms.

The visions would make him furious with nothing to rage at, downtrodden with no one to weep on and wanting with not a warm, comforting hand to grip on to. So by the second week he knew he was losing the only thing he had, his mind and it terrified him. He attempted to stave it off by refusing to acknowledge his delusions should they speak to him, instead concentrating on his hopeless situation, always bound without a hop of escape and always the threat of the dull thumping kick of the tazer should he break free.

That was until a warm breezy day two weeks and three days in when he stared out of the bay windows, watching bee's buzz about their simple lives. Occasionally on days like this where he was allowed to see he would catch glimpses of her through the door or a distant figure walking the gardens. She would talk to him only through the marionette, telling him of her disappointment.

That day he gazed out remembering a case from a few months ago, he and John had set off for the country amidst a bright and (decidedly un-English) sunny day, stopping at a small village. He had helped solve a few grisly murders and with light failing John found he had damaged their train tickets in a brawl with the murderer leaving them stranded.

They stayed at the inn that night, in spate rooms but with paper thin walls that allowed him to hear John mumbling to himself as he lay in bed, bumping against the wall as he rolled over in sleep. At the time it was the closest he had ever come to sleeping in the same bed as his companion and he cherished the memory.

There was a movement in the corner of his eye and suddenly she was standing there, hands on hips. Glaring. She was less than six foot, luminous blue hair tied up in a ponytail and black solid rimmed glasses, pout on her face. She was wearing a waistcoat and trousers, men's shoes and a ring of keys hanging from a velvet loop at her belt. Hanging off that was a battered rabbit plushie, patched with gold and clipped by its ear to a metal ring, swinging as though she had stopped abruptly.

He blinked sluggishly at her. "Tsk, I told Jasper to be gentle. He is a rather wanton character sometimes. Just can't help himself I suppose. Just look at the mess he made of you."

She reached out a hand and stroked his face tilting her head. "You are lucky Mr. Holmes, not many actually get to meet me. Most only talk to my...alter ego."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Then why not use that? Why talk to me now, reveal yourself?"

"Seems we have been having some pretty serious complications in getting the second part of this set." She patted him on the head. "I was thinking I could use you to lure him to a convenient location."

Sherlock stared into her eyes and snarled. He would not be the cause of Johns demise. He would _not_.

"He does care for you after all." (Sherlock ignored the racing of his heart. The urge to ask how she knew that.)

"You don't know that. I just help pay the rent."

She laughed, straight white teeth and sparkling eyes. "I told you Sherlock, we have been aware of you for a while. Keeping our eyes on your exploits. I have seen the way he looks at you."

Sherlock frowned. "You have no idea what you are talking about."

She sighed and patted him on the chest, and in the bright light he caught a glimpse of a figure, a lurching limping figure that burst out from behind her and wrenched the woman away, pushing her out of the open French windows and slamming them shut behind her.

She screamed a skin prickling wail and ran, probably to get through a nearby entrance but all thoughts of her escape were lost to the detective who just gazed at his rescuer. He was mad, it had happened he had lost it. Just another delusion.

"Come on, we have to get out of here."

He was released, warm fingers working at his wrists and ankles to free him and he slumped forwards, legs holding him up as if by miracle. The first true warmth he had felt in weeks.

A strong hand on his arm he was led out of the door and into the room with the computer, small plastic figurines lined the walls, strange multicoloured paintings hung on the walls and he blinked, his thoughts jumbled as he was dragged ever onwards, stumbling on rugs and running into expensive looking vases that wobbled but never fell.

They rushed through corridors and large rooms filled with antiques and ancient art, exploding through a side door into the grounds, and Sherlock glanced around but couldn't see a single guard, a single dog, _anything._ It was silent here, just the sound of a far away fountain and birds in the trees, those strong fingers anchoring him as he tripped and wavered, his legs weak and unable to hold him in his usual steady heading.

They had just reached an outside gate when he felt a burning in his chest, he couldn't breathe and he couldn't speak, the world turning black as his eyes rolled backwards into his head. He blinked and suddenly he was curled into the chest of his rescuer, head lolling backwards as he fought to remain conscious.

There was blood streaking the face above him (was it his? He couldn't remember) and eyes flickered around, voices distant but surrounding him, he smiled. Hand clenched in the soft front of his cradle he managed to open and close his mouth. (He decided vaguely that he would need to first master this before he could speak.)

"I love you."

His delusions eyes grew wide, his mouth slackening and Sherlock smiled, safe in the knowledge that here at last he was safe. He was finally warm. The world greyed around the edges and he began to slip back into the darkness. The delusion not fading this time, staring ever onwards at him as he clung to it. Safe for now at least.

"I love you John."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: thank you everyone for your reviews (: you guys are the best. Okay lots of fluffy fluffiness to make up for the last chapter as well as the brother Holmes. Please R&R 3**

The earthquake woke him, and he let it just murmur beneath his aching bones, limbs dead to him. The earth rumbled as it shook and he sighed, gravitating towards the warmth and comfort of the bed. He couldn't remember moving from that room, from the table to the bed but then he wasn't sure what was real anymore how could he be sure he didn't just forget. Suddenly the bed put a arm around his waist and pulled him up slightly, soft and warm and so so very warm that he couldn't open his eyes he simply thanked it and snuggled down, inhaling deeply. The scent was so familiar and he was surprised, he hadn't started hallucinating scents yet, not this accurately anyway.

He reached out a hand and ran his fingers down the softness, feeling it jerk and move under his hand like a great animal. With a whispered sigh he felt his body give in to exhaustion and he slip into a deep sleep.

This time when he awoke his throat was dry and cracked and he rasped out a breath, taking all his effort to roll over and gasp at the cold soothing air. He spotted a jug and glass beside him and scrabbled to it, pouring himself glass after glass of clear nectar. When his thirst was satisfied and his stomach swollen with fluid he looked up, frowning at the odd assortment of objects that surrounded him.

There were papers everywhere, scattered over the floor and spilling from a (oddly familiar) desk in the corner. Books and maps were spread out in circles on the floor and there were Polaroid photographs grouped by the bed on the floor. A calendar hung by the wall with perfect neat crosses denoting each day of his capture, tiny notes written in precise clear words grouped around certain dates. Sherlock got to his feet, his legs quivering as his head throbbed at the change in altitude. This room, this room was so familiar and he felt an odd sort of resentment and yet he could not remember why. That is until he wobbled to the window and gazed out. The panes were thick and made the view distorted and smoky as though viewed through a whiskey glass in a noir film. The grounds he remembered, the trees and the bushes and the fountain he had spent so many days staring at from this very vantage point.

He was in Mycroft's mansion, in the room with the padlocked door. This was where he had gotten clean. He was _safe_, and yet he had to be sure. To be sure this was not just another delusion brought on by the vile chemical burn in his veins, the silky hand of his captor.

He stumbled to the door pulling it hopefully and to his surprise it sprang open, well maintained carpets and wallpaper and antique art on the walls. Tasteful, archaic and so very Mycroft. Sherlock sneered reaching out to run a hand over the fox painting he had come to despise, the paint was rough beneath his fingertips, his arms taut and difficult to holdup. An unfortunate side effect of his wounds.

Turning he wandered through the various corridors, winding staircases and exuberant bedrooms, offices dotted around but the men and woman bustling around inside simply ignored him so he continued his trek. Somewhere on the second floor he thought he heard the patter of rain, a sudden change in the weather? He hadn't felt the weather for so long.

He stumbled towards the window but he couldn't lift his arms to move the heavy curtains apart so he ran, he ran for the stairs almost tripping and rolling down the last step. He ran down more modest hallway through the kitchens and out, out of a set of double doors and onto the sort spiky grass.

It crunched as he stepped forwards the heavens opening on him, big fat drops of water surprisingly warm (or perhaps he was so cold he simply couldn't feel it. Paradoxical cold perhaps.) He smiled, he was indeed free, and he was (as much as he hated to admit it) at home here.

Laughing out he ran a hand through his soaked hair and curled his toes in the grass, the smell of the rain filling his nose and surrounding him, sinking into the white t-shirt and blue pyjama pants he had been dressed in. Sherlock loved the rain, it was atmospheric, cleansing and always served to rid the streets so he could walk alone, free of the chattering masses. He heard a rustling noise behind him and thee a voice.

"Mr. Holmes you shouldn't stand outside in the rain sir. Please come back in!"

But he ignored it, he didn't want to leave, he wanted to stay here forever in the soothing downpour that soaked into his bones and made him feel more awake, more alive than he had for weeks his brain running furiously but not gibbering , limbs numbing so he couldn't feel the ache anymore.

Suddenly a finger and thumb closed around his wrist and he was unceremoniously dragged with a yelp from the scene, back through the kitchen and onwards. It was so reminiscent of his escape that he laughed, a deep belly laugh that seemed to set his leader on edge, pulling harder and up stairs, stronger then he remembered, his leader almost lifted him up the warped wooden stairs as he tripped and stumbled. He was angry, it rolled off him in waves and Sherlock (for the first time in his life in fact) cowered under it.

This was not what he wanted.

He was pulled into a bathroom on the third floor, fingers releasing him but instantly replaced by hands on his shoulder pushing him to sit on the toilet seat. Sherlock looked up and John stared down at him frowning, actual disappointment and anger in his eyes.

"What the hell were you thinking? You haven't had a proper meal in weeks, from what I can see you have sustained a large number of injuries and you decided to go and stand outside in the freezing cold rain. I don't think you have an immune system left you bloody moron."

Sherlock just smiled because John was here, beige jumper rolled up to the elbow, sensible jeans and his favourite shoes. His hair hadn't been cut yet and was longer than usual, curling about his ears and encroaching down his forehead as he swept it to the side. Sherlock leant forward a little, his face level with the doctor stomach and he could smell that (much longed for) sweet citrus cotton smell and he couldn't help himself reaching out and pulling at his companion but John slapped his hands away, shaking his head.

"No. Don't, you could catch pneumonia and with you being as you are you could... stop it!"

But he didn't, he reached out again and again finally getting the better of John and sliding his hands around his back to pull his companion close, burying his face in his chest.

John let out a surprised yelp, and went to pull away, Sherlock fingers tightening and the doctor sighed( in fact he gave up enticingly fast) placing a hand on the back of the detectives head for a second thumb rubbing gently through his hair. Sherlock felt himself shiver and then to his utter repugnance he felt a fat tear slip out from beneath one of his eyelids, dripping down his face. Sherlock sucked in a breath and rubbed his face gently against John to get rid of the tear before the soldier could see, pulling back, fighting to keep the smile on his face.

Why was it that he had managed to get him so emotional(the very idea he could get emotional about anything was odd enough) before John he would've simply gone straight back to work but now, now the doctor insisted on looking after him, making sure he was okay. It was disturbing in Mycroft, downright _bizarre_ in Lestrade, but with John he relished in it, the comfortable ease of his moments, the firm but gentle orders he would dole out and the soundness of his knowledge of both human anatomy and the detective. John stepped back and smiled kindly at him, unable to keep the anger on his face for long.

"Just stay there, I will get you some clean clothes...I mean it don't move."

Sherlock nodded and remained where he was, musing on the sudden drop in energy after he had left the rain. He couldn't move even if he wanted too. John returned a minute later placing the carefully folded clothes on the small unit next to him and spinning around to fill the bath. (Sherlock watched this carefully. It was not an unattractive or unwelcome sight after all.)

He poured something that smelt distinctly like the clear liquid Irene had used to remove the colour from her nails (his mind sluggishly replied it was probably iodine) and span around. John put his hands on his hips, "Right, I put some tincture of iodine in there, it's the only thing Mycroft has unfortunately. It will sting when you get in but it's nothing you can't handle."

He moved towards the door stopping when Sherlock didn't get to his feet. "Sherlock? You can do this on your own right?"

The detective didn't want to look at him, he felt his cheeks begin to colour and he damned himself. He didn't want John to see him as weak, regardless of the fact that he was currently 'looking after' him.

"Right, okay then. That's fine."

John crossed the room, two pink spots high up on his cheeks as he helped the detective to his feet, hand under his armpits. "Do you think you can get your underpants off without me?"

Sherlock nodded and John gave him a pleasant smile, a doctor's smile. He made quick work of his clothes, stripping the t-shirt and pyjamas in under a minute. (Sherlock's mind found this very interesting but he decided not to dwell, given their current circumstances it wouldn't do well to have a continued reaction.)

John kept his eyes pointedly on Sherlock faced as he shivered on the bathroom mat, arms wrapped around his skinny frame, toes curled in the soft fabric. "Okay, I'm going to close my eyes and you are going to take off your underpants and wrap yourself in the towel, I will then help you into the bath okay?"

He supposed this should be undignified, having to have his flatmate help him to simply clean himself but then, he knew that left to his own devices he would have to wait until he was stronger to do it by himself. It could be days and days of sitting in his own filth, dried blood and mud caked to his skin making him itch but too weak to do anything about it. Plus, John was a doctor; they did this sort of thing and worse all the time. Just not to the man they (he hoped) had feelings for.

John closed his eyes and Sherlock took forever to get the boxers down his legs picking up the towel and wrapping it around his waist. He touched John on the arm and the doctor opened his eyes, pleasant smile still on his face. His gaze boring into the detectives looking for any sign that he should stop.

But he found none because Johns warms slightly rough hands curled around his back, the other under his elbow as he helped him take the step up and over the edge of the bath, letting out a hiss through his teeth at the sting from the water.

The smell floated up in the steam and he retched, shivering in Johns hands. "Okay? Sherlock are you okay?" he was stood knee deep in the water towel around his waist and the doctor smiled up at him(it appeared a little strained as thought John was trying to hide another emotion all together, if he had been better at reading these things he would've said horror. Horror at what had been done to his friend, horror at the wounds that marred his skin.)

"Sherlock? Tell me you are okay."

He just nodded, unsure his voice would even work at this point and John sighed nodding. "I'll be just outside, if you need me call out okay?"

Sherlock nodded again and a rough hand slipped from its place on his elbow as he turned to leave. He watched him go; waiting until the door was closed to slide fully in, sinking as far down as he could without the water going over his head. His body was jumping and shaking in the water, the burn of the iodine and the pleasing gentle warmth as it sunk into his bones heating him up and soothing his pains as they resurfaced and his flesh thawed. He simply lay like this for a while, breathing in deep gentle breaths.

He gently scrubbed the dirt from his body, discovering more cuts and bruises then he remembered receiving with every swipe of the flannel. It was then he realised that he couldn't do his back and he sat for a moment considering whether or not to call John. He hated being so helpless, so reliant on others. It brought him down to the level of normal human beings, his body an anchor for his mind, and (not for the first time in his life) he despised himself, how could his great powerful mind be so encumbered with such a useless ineffective body.

Then as if by miracle there was a knock on the door. "Sherlock? Do you need me to do your back?"

The detective blinked, scrubbing at his face with the water, pitifully worried that John would be able to see the anguish on his face and then the door knob swivelled and the doctors head peered around. Thankfully the lather from the soap had formed a thick layer of bubbles on the water, maintaining his modesty and John smiled encouragingly at him from the doorway, raising an eyebrow in question. Sherlock simply lifted the flannel up and tilted his head.

John laughed and after crossing the room placed a gentle hand on his back indicating he should shuffle forward allowing easy access to his back. The detective did, letting out a soft sigh as Johns hands smoothed over his skin. He kept his eyes on his companions face, his lips between his teeth as he scrubbed past the layers of blood and filth revealing bruises the size of a fist and the thin scratch marks from Bossley's nails.

He was frowning a little now and he suddenly looked up making eyes contact. "I am giving you a proper check up later; some of these look pretty nasty."

Sherlock didn't say anything he just pushed back a little into the rough palms and Johns face broke into a small smile, fingers rubbing over his skin and over the back of his neck.

"Want me to do your hair?"

He nodded, anything to keep John here looking at him like that. The doctor used his hands to lift water and duck it over his head, hot trails running over his face and down his back. Something sweet smelling was rubbed into his scalp, fingers grazing over bumps on his skull, rubbing and massaging him until his eyes slid shut and he relaxed backwards, only a tiny voice in his mind noting that he hoped the bubbles held.

John rinsed his hair and handed him the flannel to wipe his face, everything done in silence. Finally the doctor got to his feet and smiled down at him. Sherlock grinned sleepily back up and the doctor laughed shaking his head. He reached out for the towel holding it up and turning his face away, eyes screwed shut. When Sherlocks lithe form was wrapped securely again the shorter man supported him out of the tub and back to the toilet seat.

"I'll go check if breakfast is ready. Get changed and don't move, I will come back for you."

He nodded and waited for Sherlock to bob his head up and down in response before he strode from the room nary a glance back.

Sherlock picked up the clothes, a pair of jeans he hadn't worn since he was 17, a purple shirt and mismatch striped socks. It was clear John hadn't had a chance to go back to the flat yet and had simply raided the stored clothes in the attic.

Surprisingly the jeans still fit him, slightly too tight on his legs but long enough to cover his ankles, he decided to forgo the socks but changed his mind when he remembered how angry John was with him, his rant about Sherlocks immune system. He stared at himself in the mirror, he looked a mess, pink and scrubbed from the hot bath but with large black eyes, spilt lip and only partly healed cuts on his chest, neck, and face mottled purple and green bruising down his neck and along his jaw.

H sat back down, he felt exhausted still and slightly dizzy so he leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing in the fumes from the water as it swirled around the plug, ancient plumbing groaning and creaking at it washed away. He felt contained, a mile away from the outside world and safe, hidden in his bathroom den.

When John appeared Sherlock had already fallen sleep, a soft pat to his shoulder waking him instantly, muscles tensed and on edge. But when he opened his eyes it wasn't Bossley he saw, it was Johns warm eyes, John's gentle smile and Johns' palm on his arm.

"Hey, come one. You need to eat."

Sherlock nodded, the adrenaline rush form being woken slowly ebbing away and John gave him a funny look, staring at his legs and then his face as he took long deep breaths to try slow his racing heart. He raised an eyebrow in question and John chuckled leading him from the room, eyes still trailing up and down his form.

"It's just...it's weird seeing you in jeans and mismatched socks. You're normally so...well dressed, like this you look..." A flush grew up his neck and the detective watched it with interest. John looked for a minute, trying to decide the right word. "You look unthreatening."

The detective glared, and crossed his arms. John looked practically cuddly most of the time so he had no right to go around saying who looks unthreatening or not. In fact right now John looked so comforting he had to cross his arms to stop himself clinging to the short strong frame and never letting go.

They walked in silence, heading towards the lower east side of the property, the kitchens and dining areas. They rounded the corner at the end of a less decorative corridor and went through a set of double door into the dining room. Mycroft was sat at the head of the table, an untouched croissant on the plate in front of him, large newspaper covering his face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a point of sitting at the opposite end, John joining him a moment later with two plates of food. He set the heaving tableware in front of him with a stern look.

"You eat all of that."

The softness of his face had hardened and Sherlock mused that perhaps John was uncomfortable revealing his more tactile persona here in the open, with his brother not ten feet away.(He didn't mind. The sensitive caring John was of no use to him outside of the closed doors of Baker Street. He needed the soldier then.)

Sherlock glared down at the plate picking up a fork to begin his meal, John ate with his eyes fixed on the detective, watching him force his way through a third of the food. He glanced up pleading in his eyes and John shook his head, he had no choice, he had to eat it all. The detective sighed and continued to slowly plod through the meal, food sticking to the roof of his mouth and making him gag.

This time when he finished he let the fork fall onto the empty plate and John fixed him with the brightest genuinely happy smile he had seen for weeks and weeks and he smiled right back.

"Good. Thank you." John sounded pleased (and if Sherlock noted the tone of pride in there and clung to it, so be it) and he ducked his head acknowledging the doctors response.

Mycroft's slimy voice cut through their happy bubble and he turned to stare at his brother. He had lowered the newspaper, now folded expertly to his left, hand clutching a pristine white mug with what smelt like coffee in it an eyebrow raised.

"I am pleased to see you are at least eating now."

Sherlock glared at him and the doctor sighed, bumping his knee against the longer legs of his companion. "He will be fine. A little weak maybe but nothing I can't handle."

Mycroft smiled at John and the doctor nodded, some sort of secret message must have passed between them because Mycroft stood and put his hands behind his back, smarmy smile wiped off his lips. "Well, I am pleased to see you are in good hands Sherlock. Please, when you do have some spare time feel free come to my office. I wish to speak with you."

He gave him that strange look, a curt nod to doctor Watson and then disappeared out of the door, instantly assailed by various suite men and woman gesturing with papers and laptops and phones.

The two men sat in silence for a bit, just bumping their knees together and staring out at Mycroft's (extremely well manicured) gardens.

"How did you find me?"

He surprised even himself, his voice hoarse and weak. John turned to look at him and for some reason he looked sad, so very sad in fact that Sherlock reached across the table and gripped his hand tightly, the hospital and his effort to comfort his friend in the back of his mind as his fingers were squeezed back.

"Well, if only I had your brain I would've managed it more quickly...I'm sorry Sherlock. I am so sorry."

Sherlock titled his head but didn't comment. That explained the sadness though, John felt _guilty_. Preposterous, John did everything he could. (odd that he was so assured in this knowledge. But then, it wasn't, not really because he for the first time in his life had faith in someone.) He couldn't blame him for that.

"I...well when you just ran off like that Lestrade thought maybe you had thought of something. By the third day I knew something had gone wrong, you hadn't text you hadn't called and not even Mycroft knew where you were. I even tried the homeless network but all I got was a note telling me to stay away. I was... the flat was so _empty._

Then one day I went out to look for you and this van pulled up looking for directions, I knew straight away, just form the look in the eye of the driver that someone had taken you that those people had **taken** you. I just walked away and this man grabbed me. I fought him off and I swear not since the war have I ever felt like... well. That doesn't matter, what was important was that when I got home Mycroft was waiting for me with Lestrade. They brought me here and I worked on trying to find you ever since."

"The papers and maps in the padlock room."

John nodded in confirmation.

"It took me forever but eventually I found mention of some family house belonging to a antique dealer. This dealer had been reported for selling stolen goods but no charges ever being filed. Turns out the arresting officer died on Halloween, dressed as the white rabbit from Alice in wonderland."

Sherlock laughed and John shook his head, fixing him with a disproving frown. "I thought that's just vague enough to work so your brother drove me up to have a look. The back gate was manned but Mycroft's man...Becker his name is, he knocked him out so I could get a closer look. I was only supposed to look but when I saw you just hanging there I...I..."

He trailed off into nothing, fingers so tight now against Sherlocks that it was beginning to hurt. Sherlock smiled at him, and then frowned when John looked up at him, eyebrows drawn in a confused stare.

"You didn't seem to know who I was... when I got you off that stand you were so out of it. You said...do you remember what you said?"

His voice wavered and Sherlock knew somewhere is the back of his mind that there was something important, he could feel it at the base of his spine but he couldn't remember. He recalled John appearing, he remembered running and then... it all went black.

"Said?"

"You don't remember then."

"I'm sorry...was it important?"

John's mouth gaped and for a brief second he looked almost lost. (Perhaps it was because Sherlock had apologised...)

"No it was nothing...nothing."

Sherlock smiled and John grinned back wildly, suddenly pushing his chair from the table and standing up, hands on hips, eyes far off in the distance. "Right anyway, let get you checked up."

"Why are you shouting?"

"Shouting? I'm not...doesn't matter lets go."

He blinked down at his companion, cheeks slightly red voice wavering and it almost seemed like he was upset and was attempting to fake a smile. Sherlock got to his feet, feeling less weak already.

John made him do all sorts of unpleasant things like running on the spot whilst John checked his heart rate and breathing, pressing cold metal against his bare chest. The doctor took a blood sample which made him shiver as the needle was pressed into him. A voice in the back of his head screaming for him to run, Bossley was always the worst when he had his medicine.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine."

The doctor was quiet throughout, steady gaze never leaving him as though _he _was the puzzle, the confusing thing. John even made him stand on a set of scales, tutting and shaking his head when he saw just how little Sherlock weighed.

"You could float away like paper with the correct up draught."

Sherlock sighed and complained but completed his tasks dutifully, he would after all do anything just to have Johns hands on his skin, grasping his arm or running over his neck. So warm and solid, so unlike the cold slippery fingers of Bossley. Even better were the soothing words he murmured seemingly without realising it when his nails dragged over a particularly sore cut, or he pressed just a tiny bit too hard on a bruise.

He was released half an hour later, John remaining in the padlocked room (which he hadn't even mentioned. John was a clever man and had probably worked out what it had been used for, making a conscious decision not to mention it) and dismissing him with an almost flippant wave of the hand, eyes focussed on something on the table.

Sherlock dallied on his way to Mycroft's office. He didn't want to see him but John had told him, _ordered _him in that voice and he couldn't refuse. He didn't knock of course, he just walked in, hands on hips in that ridiculous outfit, shoeless and glaring at his brother.

A man in some sort of sash with a few handlers turned around and stared at him, fat rolls of his neck red and scaly looking. The detective took a step back, the man probably smelt revolting. Mycroft put a hand to his face for just a second before getting to his feet.

"Prime minister, if you would like to follow Mr. Becker I am sure all your questions can be answered."

The man frowned. "Now see here, I came to this place to talk to **you** Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and crossed his arm, leaning on one tightly covered leg, wriggling his toes on the pale grey carpet.

"Yes, me _and_ my team. With respect sir I am sure Mr. Becker would be able to reassure you should you need it. I have some other more urgent and I hasten to say it important matters to deal with at present."

The prime minister spluttered but the side door opened and a handsome man in a well tailored suit stood in the entrance, hands behind his back, eyes fixed along with a blinding white smile, on the prime minister and his advisors.

"If you would like to come this way gentlemen."

He looked like a soldier, ready to pounce to defend at any moment. Even his suit looked like he had just changed from full SWAT gear, back poker straight hair neatly cropped. It was endearing (although he couldn't pinpoint why) and Sherlock caught himself smirking at the man, making eye contact and receiving a grin in return.

The door closed behind the bustling complaining group and the detective turned back to his brother. "Well?"

"Please sit. You are still weak."

Sherlock crossed his arms and remained standing. (He would not appear weak in front of his brother of all people.) The older man let out a long suffering sigh, "I was hoping you would be bringing me good news this morning. Judging by your performance at breakfast I assume your little admission resulted in a mutually beneficial arrangement?"

Sherlock, for once in his life had no idea what Mycroft was talking about and walked (strutted) forwards, so he could stare harder into his eyes. "What admission?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "So you haven't talked to him about what you said then?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

It stung. He could admit that at least to himself. For Mycroft to have the upper hand for any reasonable length of time was unheard of. He knew it, you could tell a sly smirk sliding across his features and he sighed theatrically.

"I suppose you were under the influence at the time. _Here."_

He pulled a slim black laptop from somewhere under his desk and pulled it open, hammering on the keys for a second before spinning it to show Sherlock what appeared to be a frozen image of Johns face in the back of the limo.

He glanced up "A camera fitted to one of your men."

"Useful for reviewing tactics."

Sherlock nodded and the video began to play. "I will come with you Doctor Watson. If this is the house than we can't have you running off on your own."

John sighed; he looked so tired, large purple bags under his eyes, lines on his forehead and around his mouth, lips chewed. Sherlock sucked in a breath (hoping to all hope Mycroft hadn't noticed) he hadn't even noticed how pale, how worried John had looked in his absolute relief to simply have him back.

"I suppose."

John voice was monotone and it hurt, it hurt him to hear how defeated he sounded. The car pulled up and he watched as John and judging from the voice, Mr. Becker, approached an electronic gate system in a hedge. The guard turned towards them and suddenly there was a lot of movement all at once and the camera was pointed down at the unconscious man, flashing back up to see Johns eyebrows raised in shock.

This Becker character was very quick. John gave him a short smile and then walked forwards, lifting a electronic pass card from the unconscious guards belt to let himself in.

"Wait here."

"No I shou-"

"I have been trained in field surveillance and have trained other men; I have even led teams on excursions through enemy camps. I am fully capable of finding out what is going on without being discovered."

His voice was sharp, that demanding tone back and Becker seemed to straighten at the words.

"Yes sir."

Definitely an ex-soldier too then, respecting of Johns authority and experience. Rightly so, because now the doctor looked almost predatory, knees bent slightly, black jumper, black trousers, his browning evident in his waistband, instantly in war mode. A stout nod and he disappeared leaving Becker to watch the gate.

Mycroft coughed and sped the video forwards until suddenly Jon and Sherlock collapsed through the gate, Sherlocks head bumping against the doctors and he seemed to clutch his chest with one hand opening and closing his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. Someone shouted, the camera rushing forwards to see Sherlock collapse on the floor.

John stared down at him, cradling him in his arms and he watched a detached smile spread across his own features, hands clenching in Johns jumper, the blood from his wounds spread and smeared all over his companion. And then he heard himself admitting his new found emotions.

"I love you."

Johns eyes grew wide and his mouth was slack, lips wet as his tongue darted out, moving as if he were to speak but Sherlock interrupted him, reiterating his point. "I love you John."

The doctor let out a gasp almost like a sob and hauled him to his feet, mostly carrying him into the back of the limo as distant voices and lights heralded them from the gardens. The video stopped as the door of limo closed on the image of John clutching Sherlock to his chest, a hands running shakily through his hair, face bereft of emotion but his eyes swimming with something Sherlock couldn't understand, couldn't deduce.

He let out a low breath and slumped backwards into the seat previously occupied by the prime minister, posture curved into a c-shape as he tried to make sense of Johns expressions, his movements just replaying over and over to no avail.

Mycroft interrupted his reverie with a polite cough. "Sherlock. I can see you clearly did not remember this. What I do find hard to believe however is that John has not mentioned it to you."

"He did. He just didn't say I said that..."

"So it is true. You do _love_ Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock glanced up fixing his brother with a sharp glare. "Is that so hard to believe."

"For you...yes. Although seeing you two together, and considering all the data I suppose it is not _surprising_, unexpected certainly... certainly but not surprising."

"What do you mean?"

"Surely detective inspector Lestrade has mentioned it, Mrs. Donovan? Mrs _Hudson_? Sherlock are you really that unaware of the difference between your behaviour with the doctor and with the other people in your life?"

He said nothing he just slumped back into his seat. Had everyone else realised already? Before _him_? Had they noticed that John was... was comfortable, familiar and fitted to Sherlock before he had even realised how simply important the man was. It seemed inconceivable that he, the great Sherlock Holmes could miss something so many _normal_ people had seen. He felt disgusted with himself, and then as his mind reeled from this news he ran a hand through his hair a frightening realisation hit him.

"What do I do now?" His voice was quiet, very quiet and he didn't know. He didn't know the answer. He wouldn't ask for Mycroft's help in any other situation, (in fact if he did ever need his resources Mycroft was there already supplying them before he asked anyway) but this was **important** and he didn't want to mess it up.

"You are asking me? I would suggest just to do what you_ feel_ is right." He put an emphasis on the word feel that made Sherlock squirm, glaring at his brothers smirking cat that got the cream grin.

"Mycroft."

A warning tone and his brother stopped his teasing.

"I suggest you talk to him. It is my opinion that he would not find the revelation disagreeable."

"Your opinion based on what."

"Observation."

Sherlock sighed and pulled himself up and out of the chair, heading towards the door.

"Oh and Sherlock. You should remain here until the gang has been fully processed. Can't have you being stolen away again can, especially when you are so ill."

Sherlock groaned and span around, hands on hips. "I am returning to Baker Street."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in challenge, and clasped his hands in front of him. "I do not believe you are. However... I **will **send one of my people to collect some fresh clothes for you, and of course to explain the situation to your wonderful landlady."

Sherlock caught the flickering gaze when his brother commented on his clothes and he remembered something he had been thinking about during breakfast. "Where is my red jumper?"

Mycroft sneered. "The red jumper has been laundered and I believe placed in the wardrobe in your room."

Sherlock nodded and left without so much as a goodbye. He had already asked for Mycroft's advice, he didn't need to mortify himself even more.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Okay another fluffy one for you, a bit shorter this time though. I promise plot next time but I couldn't get these scenes out of my head. Thanks for all the reviews. You guys are amazing and to avoid gushing like a blabbering fool I will just say this. You are all a paragon among gods.**

When he returned to the room he found John was already wearing the jumper, curled up on the chaise long by the window, sun shining in as he read some sort of heavy tome. It looked familiar and he realised with horror that it was a summary of his exploits as a child, his memoir. John looked up when he entered, smiling and closing the book with a soft thump.

"Interesting read."

"Mother thought it healthy to write down my deductions should I need to refer to them at a later date."

"I can see that. "

John was smiling and Sherlock sighed crossing the room quickly and falling (elegantly) onto the bed face first, a deep guttural groan rumbling from his chest. His muscles still ached, head pulsing with it. He had to come up with the perfect moment to discuss his emotions with John...perhaps he could get him drunk as per getting him to reveal the cause of his and Sarah's breakup. But no, it would be untoward to do so and he quashed the idea instantly.

He spent the rest of the night stewing it over in his mind, coming up with multiple possible scenarios, all unfortunately ending with John sighing like the female from the film he watched and collapsing into Sherlocks arms.

It was certainly an enticing picture if uncharacteristic.

John had read almost half of the enormous tome by the time the sun had set, checking the clock and letting out a surprised gust of wind when noticed just how late it was.

"Sherlock, get up. "

"Mmphf" (His face was sill burying in the pillows. He couldn't muster up the energy to lift it.)

"Sherlock, you have to go to your own room now. I want to go to bed."

Sherlock did lift his head this time, scowling up at John. I mean, how _rude_.

"This is my room. I have spent much more time here than you, therefore it is mine."

"No this is Mycroft's room, he owns the house and he said that I can stay here, he also said you are welcome to any other room on this hall. It's not really that far."

Sherlock let his head fall back down and didn't comment.

"**Sherlock."**

A warning tone but he still remained resolute. There was a long minute of silence before John sighed and stamped to the door. "Fine I will just go there then. You take the bloody bed."

Sherlock blinked once into the pillow and then sprang to life, twisting to sit up. "John! Don't leave!"

The doctor stopped in his tracks and turned, his anger dissipating instantly as he stared at the detective, his voice had sounded pleading, fearful, and defiant all at once, a hand outstretched towards the doctor as in the second of realisation a sickening spread of panic had gripped him and he had tried to grasp the doctors clothes as he walked by.

He couldn't leave, not now, not _already_. John lifted his hands up as Sherlock lowered his, walking forwards his tone now softer, voice quiet and comforting. "It's okay. It's fine I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock slumped, muscles relaxing when he realised the truth in the doctors' words. He wouldn't leave, not now. He shuffled over on the bed, feet (now bare. He had discarded the socks as soon as he had left Mycroft's office, his sneer burning in his mind.) curling against the cold of the floor and John sat heavily next to him.

"I am so sorry Sherlock. I didn't let myself think that they... it must've been awful."

"It was." He couldn't lie to him. Not right now. "It was not your fault."

John seemed to droop as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He opened his mouth as if to say something but thought better of it, blinking hazily at his colleague.

"Come on. I meant it about going to bed. I'm exhausted and you need the sleep."

"I have slept more in the last 24 hours than I have in months John."

"Exactly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and in silence they got dressed (turning their backs although Sherlock did peek. A newfound pleasure is a difficult one to refuse and especially one as simple as seeing Johns pale smooth back, the scar on his shoulder, the supple movement of his shoulders. )

Neither hesitated as they climbed into the (single, surprisingly Sherlock had forgotten this fact) bed, John closest to the wall with Sherlock curled around him like and octopus. It was a great leap from the rather innocent hand holding of old but Sherlock didn't care, John was here and he was going to make the most of it.

Pressing his legs up against the back of his knees and holding his back against his chest, Sherlocks nose in his hair. They were silent for a few minutes Johns breathing changing minutely a few times and the detective sighed.

"You want to ask me something?"

John laughed, "No hiding anything is there."

"No."

John laughed again although this time there was a strange tone to it, it lacked the usual depth. "Sherlock...did you _hallucinate_ on the drugs? I mean I know they **can** cause the-"

Sherlock squeeze the doctor stopping his stumbling question in its tracks. "Yes. I hallucinated."

"Oh..."

"You want to know what I saw."

There was a seconds hesitation and Sherlocks skin was on fire, John smelt as sweet and comforting as he was solid and warm but even this couldn't still the furious beating of his heart.

"**Yes**."

"I saw my childhood, and a Latin lesson I once had in university and you. I would see you the most although you weren't very helpful as I recall. You just sort of stood there."

"Oh. Did you...I mean did you talk to these hallucinations?"

"After a while. Gave me something to do when I was left on the table."

"Oh...what kind of things would you say?"

There was no mistaking the anticipation, the strange need in his voice. Sherlock frowned, was that because he wanted to hear that Sherlock loved him? Or to hear that Sherlock loved someone else, that he had misheard...

"Mostly I would discuss my deductions about Bossley, the mistress of the organisation and I would tell you about my childhood, my first cases. You would greet me and then just let me talk... why?"

"Nothing it's just...it's not important."

"_John."_ His turn to be stern and suddenly he wanted it, he wanted to hold John close like this and tell him he loved him. To tell him about the stirring broiling emotions in his chest.

"You just said something to me that was a bit weird..."

"What did I say? Nothing offensive I presume...did I tell you about the Taiwanese lady boy?"

There was an intake of breath and John laughed, a blush flooding the back of his neck. "Taiwanese lady boy?"

"Ah, I assume that wasn't it then."

"No."

"What did I say?"

"You said...you...you told me the wings I was wearing looked ridiculous and that I don't suit tawny."

Sherlock frowned disappointment pooling in his gut and making him hold back a frustrated growl.

"Oh. I apologise, I am sure tawny suits you very well."

John laughed and wriggled a little bit, sighing softly. The detective stared at the back of his head in confusion, why had he changed his mind? Why hadn't John told him about telling him he loved him? It would've been the natural progression of the conversation and yet he lied...or did he. Johns pulse had been steady, his breathing too so Sherlock must've said that at one point. Why had he chosen that phrase then instead of ...it didn't matter. He would just have to tell him the next day. Even if being so evasive was uncomfortably out of John's usual behaviour.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

His voice vibrated through the detective's bones and he smiled, comfortable heat following the timbre of his voice. He decided then and there not to allow his mind to run, right now he should concentrate on the sensation and the warm pool of what he assumed was contentment that sat low in his gut.

"Goodnight John."

He woke up early the next morning to find John had rolled sometime in the night and was now lying with his head against Sherlocks chest, snoring softly, his feet tangled in the sheets so that they were pulled down, uncovering his arm which had wrapped around Sherlocks waist.

He smiled committing the image, the sensation and the smell to memory. It was surprising really that more people didn't fall in love with their flatmates if this was a common occurrence (although he greatly suspected it wasn't. Of course he couldn't be sure.)

John snorted awake about an hour later, blushing red with his eyes closed. "You're still here."

"Yes"

"You heard that."

"I did."

John ducked his head, essentially brushing his head down Sherlocks chest and snorting in laughter against his ribs. Hot air blew through the thin fabric and Sherlock laughed too, moving a hand up to lay it on his arms. The warm buzz at the base of his spine began moving upwards and spreading through his veins so he lifted John from his chest a little. Couldn't have John coming across his continued reaction.

"What do you want to do today?"

John was looking up at him, eyes wide and innocent as though he wasn't currently entangled with his colleague in a single bed dressed only in a pair of boxers and a thin t-shirt. (Sherlock duly noted)

"And before you say it. No work. Not today. Take just one day off."

"I just had two weeks off!"

John glared at him and punched him in the chest (actually quite hard.) "Don't. Don't say that like it was nothing."

Sherlock frowned. "But it's the truth..."

John shook his head, glancing to the side with an odd glaze to his eyes, his line of sight landing on the memoir on the desk. "Tell you what, you can show me around this place. According to your diary-"

"Memoir."

"_Memoir, _you actually lived here as a kid? I haven't seen much, I was pretty much holed up in here the entire time."

Sherlock wasn't sure what his reaction was supposed to be, but John seemed genuinely interested.

"Okay."

They ate breakfast with John doing most of the eating whilst Sherlock explained how they had come to acquire the house and how Mycroft had been chosen to take it when mummy left for the country because she didn't want Sherlock 'blowing it up with his little games'

John laughed and put too much on his own plate. It was obvious he had noticed Sherlock preferred to eat off the doctors' plate because he completely ignored the left side of his meal, glancing at Sherlocks thin arms and tiny waist every time he took a bite. So Sherlock ate (only little. He gagged at the thought of eating to the expanse of the day before) and regaled him with the unfortunate tale of his father's funeral.

He gave John a tour of the old servant halls, now replaced by offices bustling with Mycroft's team, a fully trained chef still on staff as well as a horde of gardeners. Sherlock explained how he had built a shelter out here, hidden beneath the roots of a fallen down oak. (Despite the popular saying lightening does strike twice and in one fell swoop finished off the tree and Sherlocks personal hiding place)

John would nod, and smile and laugh as he talked him through his exploits. Sherlock kept trying to find a way to bring up what he had said but John would always ask a question or notice something that would lead them away and he grew more and more frustrated as the day wore on.

At one point the doctor removed the red sweater long enough that Sherlock managed to get it in his hands before John noticed him trying to sneak it away and ripped it from his tender grasp. A stern look in his eyes as he pulled it back over his head. Sherlock glared and led him onwards to the drawing room.

Finally they ended up in Sherlocks old bedroom in the now almost deserted west wing, Mycroft's time taken up with too much other business to restore or maintain it at any great length so it sat like a museum to the Holmes family past.

Sherlocks room was up a twisted light of stairs at the end of the library and study corridor in the far corner of the house. He ducked instinctively as he went through the door, John not being so familiar didn't and the detective chuckled at the thump and following cursing as he crossed his room. John stepped in rubbing his forehead and glanced around and strange expression on his face.

"What?"

"It's just...just like I thought it'd be."

The room still smelt of copper and fire from his last great experiment before he was carted off to boarding school. The wall still showing scorch marks, and blackened books sat nearby. In fact books were 'nearby' to everything, piled up in corners, falling off shelves, littering the floor. A pin board had photographs, hand written notes and bits of string stretched across it like a map of his mind, somewhere lay his first violin, still in this case polished and clean and smelling like all ancient instruments of great masterpieces that now settled to dust that one day will be blown off and will hum in the air again.

The walls were a deep purple he had long forgotten, bed sheets a similar blood red. He remembered his insistence; he wanted his room to be dark. Bright colours distracted his childish mind and he needed to focus on his work. On the desk lay a large feather quill presented to him on his birthday. He had received a extra large amount of presents that year and he suspected that as it had followed the unfortunate deflowering and subsequent humiliation of that summer they were in essence trying to 'cheer him up'. He could not be sure of course, the Holmes family strayed from open expression of emotion, the word love never crossing their lips. It was hell he was told to find suitable cards for birthdays and Christmas that did not include such soppy and soft words.

He sighed and sat heavily on his old bed. An ancient four poster that creaked and groaned even with his slim stature. John poked around his books, papers he had written and the small number of experiments he had logged in large leather bound volumes. He asked questions, peering at photographs and prodding jars of brightly coloured fluid with various animals entombed within (all dead of natural causes.) eventually sitting next to him on the bed.

"It's nice in here."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that.

"I guess you spent a lot of time up here..."

"Yes. I was not...I did not understand my family and they do not understand me."

John nodded his face solemn.

After an awkward beat Sherlock suddenly remembered a conversation and a promise clearly escaping the doctors own thoughts. "John. In what way would you hug a friend and how does this differ from how you would hug a lover?"

John's mouth dropped open and he shook his head, a smile gracing his features. Sherlock jumped from the bed, ducking his shoulder and bowing a little as he wheedled to John, hands out in a pleading fashion.

"John, you promised you would show me. It is vital I understand these things."

The doctor seemed to resolve something in himself because he slumped and then straightened his back, shoulders squared a deep breath and then he nodded arms by his side.

"You know what. Fine. Step back a bit."

Sherlock stepped back obediently and couldn't stop the wide grin that took over his face. A success. (Of course it was always his aim these days to get John as close to him as possible.)His heart rate picked up and he could feel his lungs constricting.

"Right if I didn't know you but we met at a party as friends of friends you would hug like this."

He reached out a hand and took Sherlocks in a brief handshake and then pulled him into a short one armed hug, a hard slap on the shoulder. It reminded him vividly of the dance class of his youth sand the brutal stamping little girls he was forced to lead through ballroom dance steps to the delight of mummy.

"I see. Is this common among both sexes?"

John took him through quite a fascinating mirage of different circumstances and situations and the appropriate form of hug. The most interesting were the close friend hug (very close together, hips pointed away but not too much, chest and shoulders against each other, arms around shoulders) and then he got to the romantic ones.

He paused after explaining the different ones for male and females and female female pairings (they did not try these out. Neither wanted to try being the female) and Sherlock waited for him to start explaining male hugs. But he didn't, he just blushed and frowned.

"What about males John?"

"Well they are the same as the ones with girls just with a guy."

"Well come on then." Sherlock opened his arms with his best innocent curious expression plastered on his face and John went a delightful deep red, before breathing out of his nose and setting his shoulders. (Not a good sign.)

But ever the soldier he stepped forwards anyway and put a arm low around Sherlocks waist, the other around his back, Sherlock mimicking his stance. Then he leant his head against the detectives neck and stepped close, his hips bumping against the thinner ones of his companion, chest brushing(in fact crushed) together.

It was certainly exciting, energy thrumming under his skin and he could feel every fibre of the red sweater against his skin, John shorter stature meaning that his face was directly against the skin of his neck and for a second, just a second he could've dreamed he swore he felt a soft kiss pressed to his Adams apple.

John pulled back.

"Well you get the idea."

He then turned and strode across the room in the pretence of reading the volumes there, ignoring Sherlocks own slightly flushed face. He was simultaneously thankful and disappointed that John had left. His skin still tingled where he had held him, chest feeling oddly cold without the doctors body heat. He was left wanting, and he knew then that he would do anything to have John hug him like that again; it was different from the nights cuddled up in bed or the furious embraces during cases or when he found John after a kidnapping.

It was more personal than that it seemed and Sherlock felt a stab to his chest. John had run from him, perhaps this was him rejecting the detective? Showing him he did in fact dislike his presence in a more than friendly way.

He turned and sat on the bed, John glancing at him with an odd look on his face like he was checking to see if Sherlock would suddenly lose his mind. When he didn't (it was much too late for that) the doctor put the book he had (pretended) been so immersed in on the floor and crossed the room sinking down next to his friend.

A distinctly odd moment, he was not sure exactly what to say so he did nothing, said nothing.

They sat in contemplative silence for a while, a loud ringing pulling them from their respective thoughts. Sherlock had laid back; John next to him, the doctor's face turned towards him but Sherlock didn't want to look. He knew that if he did, if he made eye contact he wouldn't be able to say anything anyway, but Johns hands touched his and he had to fight not to see the expression on his face, the light in his eyes. He wasn't sure if now was the time to talk about what he said.

"Ah. I see tea is ready."

Sherlocks voice was loud in the tiny, dust filled space the falling sunset glowing orange light through high up windows casting fiery shadows against the walls. John sighed and got up. He walked out leaving Sherlock alone on the bed, feeling like he had missed something important.

Dinner was a quiet affair (in fact he would even call it tense) and the Holmes brothers spent it listening to John, interspersed with Mycroft living Sherlock meaningful looks and slipping comments about how happy they are, how lucky his brother is to have found someone who cares ad nauseum.

That night John didn't even try to ask him to move from the bedroom, simply getting dressed and slipping between the sheets, glancing over his shoulder after half an hour and the detective still hadn't joined him. Having been preoccupied recreating his last great experiment he had missed this event and was now was rooting around the room, searching for his prize.

"If you are looking for my red jumper it's not in here."

Sherlock glared at him and straightened up. The doctor raised an eyebrow and the detective sighed, turning his back to change. He listened to Johns breathing but there seemed to be no change although he did feel a pair of eyes on his skin. (Possibly imaginary.) When dressed he got into bed, mumbling under his breath.

"What was that?"

John placed a hand over Sherlocks as it curled around his chest, squeezing to prompt a reply.

"I said it's _our_ jumper. We **both** wear it."

"No Sherlock. It is my jumper, you just happen to steal it sometimes."

Sherlock scoffed but didn't reply. John took this as a victory and grinned. Sherlock could almost feel it in the air. Scientifically impossible of course.

"Glad you agree. Lestrade text me earlier, we can go home tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled into the back of his hair.

We can go home.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Oh my god you guys. Thank you all so much and especially AuraBlackWolf for her amazing review. This one is a wee bit longer than I anticipated but I hope you like it. Please review and tell me what you think!**

The next morning he had woken very early, slipping from the bed to hunt down his red sweater. It took him just over ten minutes to locate the bundled up pullover in a laundry closet on the floor above them. He grinned at his prize, pulling it over his head and inhaling deeply.

It smelt like John and for a moment he let himself just revel in it, his focus interrupted by one of Mycroft's men thundering down the corridor behind him, casting a odd glance at the detective stood in the corner holding his sleeves up to his face, enraptured smile on his face.

Sherlocks smile dropped and he glared at the man which sent him satisfactorily on his way.

John arrived downstairs to find the Holmes brothers staring (glaring) at each other. Sherlock turned away from the cold gaze and beamed up at him. (He was after all genuinely pleased to see him.)

"John. Good morning."

"I knew you'd find it."

Sherlock laughed and so did John albeit a little sleepily, his hair was rumpled, hands rubbing through it making it stick up and Sherlock heart clenched (It was what he would hesitate to call 'cute'.) He slumped into the chair next to the detective, blindly reaching out for a glass of water.

"Coffee?"

He wanted John to see that he could be helpful, kind even. Maybe then he would not reject him when...well when the time came. After all it was clear John had decided his confession had been a drug ridden hallucination and not what he actually felt. So of course he would have to show him the truth. At some point in the future...not right now.

John blinked wearily at him, an eyebrow raised and he nodded uncertainly. "Okay."

Sherlock beamed and sprang from his seat, rushing to fill a cup with strong black coffee. He placed it carefully in front of the doctor and waited at his side until he took a sip, wincing and smiling up at him.

"Thanks."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that graced his features and when he bounced back into his chair, he ignored the pointed look he was receiving from the far end of the table in favour of watching his companion sip his way through the coffee **he** had made him.

"I have arranged a driver to take you home gentlemen."

"Thank you Mycroft, for everything. Really."

"No no, no trouble. After all you are family now."

John spluttered on his drink and Sherlock glared at his sneering sibling.

"What do you mean?" his voice was odd, and Sherlock turned his gaze back, watching Johns flush as it spread over his cheeks and down his neck. He was staring directly at Mycroft.

"Oh only that as my brothers friend and flatmate you are as close to him as I am...perhaps more."

John actually choked this time, wheezing and banging himself on the chest, eyes flickering between the Holmes brothers. "Yes well. I suppose."

Sherlock simply did what he always did when Mycroft made one of his suggestive comments. He ignored it completely.

"Hurry up John. The sooner we get out of here the better."

They bundled into the back of a sleek black jaguar followed by Becker, who slid into the seat beside Sherlock, John on the outside to his left. The car stank of expensive leather, tinted windows making it almost impossible to see outside properly (He could still tell where they were on his route regardless.) John chatted amiably to Becker, Sherlock watching in silence.

"So how long have you worked for Mycroft?"

"It will be four years this summer."

Becker smiled and John shook his head, grinning. "I don't know how you managed it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, being around a Holmes for that long. You must be tired of him seeing everything about you?"

"Not really. Mister Holmes is very respectful of all his employees."

Sherlock snorted. He didn't like the way John was talking, it sounded like he couldn't imagine being around that long. It made his stomach turn at the idea John would get tired of him.

"It's not that bad John."

The doctor looked at him, both men laughing. Sherlock was not.

"The fact you can see everything about everyone can be annoying you know. I can't hide things from you."

"You could see it too if you just looked."

"No I couldn't."

"Of course you could. Look, tell me what you can see about Becker."

"No, I'm not making an idiot out of myself."

Sherlock just raised a hand gesturing to his right with a challenging smirk. John frowned and then put a hand to his lips, staring at the soldier opposite him. Becker (a good sport) opened his arms with a grin.

"You were a soldier."

"Correct."

"You look about 30... Chose to work for Mycroft because...you were a specialist and like all specialists underused and underappreciated. He asked you to join him because you know something important or...you have some sort of extra special skill."

"Also correct. I am a weapons expert and have a pilot's license. Mister Holmes approached me after my last mission offering a position in his team."

Sherlock watched their exchange with interest. Watching John deduce things about the other man sent a hot shot of something down his spine and he crossed his arms, pinching himself in an attempt to calm his body down. Seeing him pick apart a person simply from sight was..._interesting_ to say the least. (He wondered if John thought something similar about him.) John finished his deductions and glanced at the detective who was furiously attempting to hide a blush that had seeped up his neck, he felt rather hot and shuffled in his seat giving John his best impressed smile.

John smirked, rightfully smug.

"Almost got everything, there is one thing you missed..."

Arriving back at the flat they burst into the kitchen followed by Mrs. Hudson who had greeted them on the stairs hugging Sherlock to her bosom and patting John's hands together in sympathy. All three stopped and winced at the smell.

"Ah I didn't have a chance to get rid of the perishables before I left..."

John rushed forwards, rolling up his sleeves and Mrs. Hudson trotted away mumbling about getting her cleaners. Sherlock just watched the doctor go; wondering again when the best time would be to bring up.

He coughed, a rattling chesty cough and John spun on the spot sleeves rolled up, pink marigolds already on. He narrowed his eyes in Sherlock direction and walked onwards slowly (limping still. The cast was yet to be removed.)

"What was that?"

"Was what? I don't know what you are talking about."

"You are getting a cold aren't you."

"No, I just coughed John. It was nothing, simply a clearing of the airways."

"No I'm a doctor remember, I've heard that cough. If this develops into pneumonia you have only yourself to blame."

Sherlock ignored the rest of his rant (a sizable time period) crossing the room and collapsing onto his sofa, sleeves pulled up to cover his nose. He had much thinking to do.

John spent most of the night in the kitchen, scrubbing and tutting and sending glances over his shoulder at the detective sprawled out on the sofa, laptop balanced on his chest. He was searching, trying to find out the best way to tell John that he loved him but with minimal risk of rejection. He found a rather informative article _'10 things to show your lover how much you care_' and waited, buzzing with energy and renewed ideas for John to go to bed.

Sighing and rolling his eyes as he left the doctor looked his way. "Do actually go to sleep Sherlock. Listen to my advice this time."

Sherlock pretended to ignore him and John slammed the door behind him on his way up the stairs.

As soon as he was gone the detective sprung into action, leaping from his position and running for the kitchen. He only had a few hours to perfect his surprise.

The next morning he was knelt down against the unit, peering over the edge at his creation, checking both sides were even, waving a sharp knife at it. There was the creaking of the door and then silence for a beat before..."WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE!"

Sherlock stood, twirling on his ankles, little white clouds puffing from his clothes. He coughed into his hand and pulled out the lopsided, slimy (slightly gray) cake, proffering it to the now purple faced John. The doctor hands were clenched at his sides and he was breathing heavily, eyes travelling from the cake to Sherlock and back again.

"Sherlock...tell...tell me that I am dreaming right now."

"I made a cake."

John slapped a hand to his face and dragged it down shaking his head and moaning as he gazed at the flour dusted kitchen, globs of melted, half melted and solid butter littered the unit along with numerous broken eggs on the floor (a lot trickier than described actually) and the small mountain of different bowls he had used.

Sherlocks bright grin faded a little and he put the cake on the unit, rubbing his hands against his thigh.

"Tell me that I am not really seeing the kitchen I spent four hours cleaning yesterday is now...now _even worse_."

Sherlock just blinked a heavy weight landing on his chest. John was supposed to be overjoyed with his cake. He had even carved a heart shape into the top although getting it anatomically correct had taken him ages. (He was quote proud of it, the jam filling the veins really made them stand out) The stupid list had been wrong.

Lips downturned he just scooted out of the way as the doctor advanced on the cabinet, deciding perhaps a different tack was needed. He left the flat as soon as John snapped the marigolds back on with a glare so fierce he checked his shirt to see if the doctors' eyes had bored holes in him.

He wandered the streets for a few hours, deciding that perhaps some of the other suggestions would work better on his companion. When he got back to Baker Street he found John in his chair, watching the TV.

"John? I was wondering if you would like to go watch a movie with me." (The next thing on the list. He had been nervous about just asking him but there was no going back now.) He knew his voice sounded weak, pleading even and he grinned, perhaps now he had calmed down from the shock of seeing the kitchen like that, perhaps now he would appreciate the cake.

John turned the TV off and turned to stare at the detective, eyebrows drawn together and Sherlocks face dropped. Or perhaps not.

"Sherlock. I understand that you were trying to be nice or helpful and that whatever was going through your head at the time wasn't malicious. But you must understand that I live here too, I clean I cook and I am _tired_. I am tired of coming home from a day running around this bloody city to find one of your experiments has exploded all over the kitchen or to find paper thrown everywhere in here because you couldn't find the precise article you wanted."

Sherlock nodded stiffly, stuffing his hands deep into his great coats pockets, tearing his eyes away from John's carefully neutral face. This was exactly the opposite reaction he had wanted.

"And as I said you obviously didn't mean it maliciously so thank you for making me...that, but if you are interested in learning to bake maybe you should ask Mrs. Hudson for some help. I'm sure she would love to teach you how to improve your skills."

His words were obviously chosen carefully as not to upset or discourage Sherlock. It was kind of him, but unnecessary because Sherlock wasn't listening properly anymore. He was fighting to stop himself pouting in disappointment, or throw his arms up in frustration. He had _tried_. It was unfair, how was he supposed to know how to cook the damn thing. It wasn't like he had ever cooked anything like that before. (Well mummy had attempted to get him to help create something she called 'cupcakes' as a boy. She had given up by the third time he managed to explode the concoction.)

Of course he had watched some instructional videos, read some recipes but he hadn't managed to get any of them to work. He had put so much effort in and it was all for naught. He stared down at his feet, not wanting to look at his companion.

There was a long silence and John sighed rubbing a hand through his hair. He stared at Sherlock, letting out a deep breath. "You have a movie in mind?"

Sherlock looked up and grinned. Yes he did.

They had spent the day cleaning and organising the living room (well John did) Sherlock spent it in a hive of nervous energy, so bad in fact that John kicked him from the flat until later that evening citing he was cluttering up the place by just being there.

When he returned he hovered around the man until it was almost time to leave for the movie. At one point John had gone to the toilet and when asked why he was following him into the bathroom Sherlock caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

"I need to shower."

John raised an eyebrow, "Right now?"

Sherlock blushed a little "Uh no. I can wait for a minute."

He took a step back and John closed the door in his face.

He took his time, scrubbing at his hair and just letting the steaming hot water pound over his sore muscles, his breathing easier and easier the more he breathed in the steam. (He theorised it would help keep the rather unfortunate illness he was developing from John, Ingenious.)

He took so long in fact John had begun banging on the door a slightly worried tone to his voice. "Sherlock? Sherlock you haven't passed out in there have you?"

The detective stepped from under the flow of the water and picked up his towel, just wrapping it around his waist when John burst through the door having shouldered it open. His worried gaze turned to surprise and then embarrassment impressively quickly and Sherlock watched as it travelled from his bare toes wriggling on the carpet, up his legs pausing for a second on the towel and then zig zagging up his chest to (almost) meet his eyes.

"I...uh..."

"I am quite alright John."

"Yes yes I can see that..." he blushed a delightful red, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I'll just be leaving then." He span quickly on the spot and then without looking back all but ran out of the room.

When Sherlock got downstairs (fully dressed this time, in fact he had put on his favourite shirt and suit. He wanted to impress) John was sat in his chair, jiggling his good knee and string at the wall opposite himself.

"John."

The doctor jumped blinking furiously at Sherlock. "Right, well. Now you're dressed..."

In the cab the detective spent the time grinning and attempting to speed up traffic with the power of his mind (foolish but understandable) He was excited, not only because he wanted John to know that he loved him but because the list promised that after the movie John would come back and ask for coffee.

And apparently that lead to sex.

John had mentioned wanting to see this (as he now knew I was called) 'action' movie almost a full month ago and Sherlock had searched London for a theatre showing it. The list had told him to take his 'lover' out to see a play or to a concert that you know they would love. Well John did love it, in fact he seemed surprised Sherlock had even chosen the film, glancing at him oddly when he bought the tickets.

"What? I can be interested in movies too John."

The doctor had just raised an eyebrow and offered to pay for the popcorn.

He seemed to enjoy the movie, laughing and bumping his elbow against Sherlocks as he watched the flickering images. The detective vaguely wondered if John had noticed he hadn't even looked at the screen yet, still fixated on where the shorter mans knee knocked against his and his hand digging into the popcorn box that rested on his own bony knees.

He paused, a hand halfway to his mouth, grin fading a little as he stared bemused at the detective.

"What? Have I got something on my face?"

Sherlock shook his head and John raised an eyebrow but went back to watching the movie oblivious to Sherlocks attempts to press more of his body against John, encroaching over the arm rest until he was almost leaning directly over Johns lap. He (desperately although nobody was to know that) hoped the movie would work because John looked amazing, half lit in the darkened cinema, smooth skin and wide grin. Not to mention he smelt amazing and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he had put on aftershave to come to the movie.

The cab home was silent and Sherlock was smiling, looking out of the other window. A success. John had enjoyed the movie and now understood how he felt...but he spoke to soon.

"Thanks for that Sherlock. It doesn't get you off the hook for the kitchen but thanks anyway."

Blast, John thought it was just a ploy to get into his good books (where in fact he wanted to get into his '**very**' good book) Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, he was trying to work out whether he was actually contractually obliged to drink the coffee before he took John upstairs, or whether he could just jump straight to what he was increasingly gasping for.

Johns warm handed landed somewhere to his side and Sherlock resisted the urge to reach out and grab it. (He was hesitant despite John recent lack of aversion to having the detective draped over him. In fact the increased level of bodily contact in their relationship was a god send.)

He glanced over to see the doctor biting softly on the pad of his thumb, staring out of the other windows as he softly swiped his tongue over the raised red flesh. The detective suppressed a whimper and shifted in his seat, ripping his eyes from the shorter man. He needed control...at least for now.

When they got in John yawned, stretching his arms. "I'm going to bed."

Sherlocks grin dropped. "What?"

John raised an eyebrow waving vaguely at the stairs "Uh...I'm going to bed? You know...to sleep?"

Sherlock pouted "Don't you want any coffee?"

"Sherlock, we don't have any coffee, you don't drink coffee!"

His mouth dropped open and frankly, he was crushed. This had not gone as well as he had been hoping, in fact John just shook his head turning away to pad upstairs. "Maybe you should get some sleep Sherlock."

The detective sighed and slumped down on the couch. Well that was another thing he would have to scratch off the list, in fact he had every right to write to the author and complain. Her suggestions were getting him nowhere. Suddenly there was yelling from upstairs and he ran seemingly without thinking up almost colliding with John in the doorway to his bedroom. He glanced in remembering the other suggestion he had followed.

John's room was covered in cacti, enormous ones grouped around his bed and the shorter stubbier ones lined up on the sheets. The list had recommended roses but Sherlock despised the smell so he bought the only other flower that the shop had enough of.

John was staring at the soil on the carpet; the stumpy green plants surrounded every corner of the room.

"I bought you flowers."

The doctor took a step back in silence and slammed his bedroom door leaving the two men in the hallway. His voice was unnervingly quiet and steady and he wouldn't look at him, avoiding Sherlocks gaze no matter how much he ducked his head or bounced around him.

"John?"

"Sherlock. I will be using the sofa; you have to sleep in your own room tonight."

"You don't want them?"

John looked up at and Sherlock winced at the barely contained fury within. "No."

He licked his lips. Perhaps it would better to attempt what Mycroft referred to as damage control. "Take my bed..."

John nodded stoutly and stamped off leaving Sherlock stood alone, even more downtrodden and disappointed. He had gotten it wrong again.

That night he consulted the list again, angrily crossing them off as he went along. There must be at least one suggestion that would work (barring of course the movie which had been something of a small success) and then he saw it, a double whammy. It took him all night and a lot of research but that morning he rose from his sofa early, confident this time he would be successful.

Sherlock walked carefully up the stairs, and crossed his bedroom floor without a sound, gazing down at the doctors sleeping form. A smile grew on his face and he had to fight not to bounce on his heels, which would surely upset his gift.

"John...JOHN" (He hadn't meant to shout.)

The doctor blinked furiously as he woke with a runt, peering up at the detective suspiciously. "Wha-"

Ah, now the difficult part. "You wear a lot of plaid."

John just blinked sleepily at him and Sherlock tried to grin charmingly pacing the tray over the man's legs. John looked down, eyes widening as he just stared. Mrs Hudson had been most helpful.

"Breakfast? You made me breakfast in bed."

"You have a lot of books."

John just gazed up at him, mouth hanging open and Sherlock ran his hand through his hair in frustration, perhaps he needed to be more specific. "I like your laugh."

John actually blushed which seemed like a big improvement and a wry grin spread across Sherlocks face. "I like the way you smell... I like our jumper..."

John's mouth snapped open and he put a hand to his forehead shaking his head. "That's it, it has finally happened."

"What has?"

"You have gone mad."

"No, I am as sane as I ever was..."

John titled his head with a smirk on his face. "What the hell are you doing then?"

"Complimenting you."

"Compli- Sherlock. I don't think you have the hang of it."

"Oh."

John was silent for a minute and Sherlock noted that he seemed to be eyeing him critically. (He hoped he wouldn't see how disappointed he was. He was sure he had it right this time.) "Thank you for trying... and for breakfast."

He looked down at it, picking up a sausage with the fork and sniffing it before nibbling the edge. He raised an eyebrow and looked up.

"Mrs Hudson helped out a bit." (By a bit he meant she had cooked it for him, smiling and winking at him the entire time. Bizarre.)

"Ah right. Of course."

John grinned and Sherlock suddenly didn't feel so bad anymore. He nodded his head "Right. Well, I will just be downstairs."

John nodded his head in response, "Sherlock what is all this about?"

Oh damn. Did he just say it now?

"I-"

His phone went off loudly in his pocket and Sherlock whipped it out putting up a finger to indicate he'd be a minute. "Hello?"

It was Lestrade telling him he might have a lead and he would be around later to get Sherlocks opinion. When he looked back John was immersed in the newspaper he had included on the tray (at Mrs. Hudson's insistence.) and he decided it was best not to distract him.

Back on the sofa he ticked off the two suggestions with a grin, perhaps there was something in this after all. He read the next one and decided to get to work straight away, bending and scrabbling on the floor to find a pen. Whilst crouched under the desk he felt suddenly very light headed and got up slumping on the sofa. After a minute it seemed to clear so he continued on with his task.

That is, for ten minutes at the most before he dissolved into another coughing fit and was forced to place his pen down on the half finished letter. He stared at the mantelpiece attempting to fight off the fuzzy buzzing that was spreading up his neck and the back of his head. His throat tickled and he coughed, a mistake because once he started he couldn't stop heaving and gasping for breath as his chest rattled.

The adrenaline that had pulled him through the last few hours had finally run out.

He slumped back in his seat, panting and trying to open his eyes. Perhaps he did need some sleep after all, pulling his knees up to his chest to curl up.

When he coughed himself awake a few hours later he first noticed that his paper and pen had moved, then realising that John was in fact holding it. He leapt from his place on the sofa and tried to grab for the list.

"Give me that."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

He had one side and was pulling it towards himself, trying desperately to stop John reading the unfinished work. "Just give it here."

John frowned pulling it back towards himself and ducking out from under Sherlocks armpit. "Why, what is so important...it is just some sort of list."

John's eyes drifted down to read the writing and Sherlock leapt at him, tackling him onto the leather sofa. The doctor landed with a grunt and Sherlock scrabbled for the paper, his focus entirely on retrieving the document.

That was, of course, until John stopped moving.

Sherlock paused as he easily pulled the paper from the doctors grasp grinning at his victory, smile slipping off his face when he looked down at the shorter man's face. John was bright red, frowning a little, a strange light in his eyes.

"Sherlock. Get off me."

The detective matched his frown, only now noticing that one of his legs was hooked over John's hip, the other pressed between the doctor's thighs. He was careful not to knock the still plastered leg too much, its rough surface catching on his suit leg. Their chests were crushed together, Sherlocks face just inches away from Johns and from his 'on-top' position he was being held up slightly by Johns hand on his waist the other tensed away from their heads had been holding the document.

The tea scented breath of his companion filled his senses and he just stared down, his mind focussing on the warmth seeping through the thin pyjama trousers and white t-shirt the doctor was wearing, the hard planes of muscle on his chest and the way his thighs tensed around Sherlocks leg.

"Sherlock I said get off me." (He did not think it wise to comment that John was perfectly capable of pushing him off. In fact he couldn't have said anything even if he wanted too.)

His eyes were now wide, almost panicked and Sherlock licked his lips, focusing on John's mouth as he spoke and then his eyes, a warm brown, so wide and so very captivating.

The detective opened his mouth, a mistake because now he could almost taste John beneath him and he closed it again, lowering his hand, fingers dragging only slightly through Johns soft hair and suddenly he was thrown clear off, landing heavily on the floor with bang.

John leapt off the sofa and stamped towards the stairs, his face still beetroot.

"John..."

"I have to go to the clinic. I promise I would pick up some appointments this week."

"I thought you broke up with her."

"I still promised."

He was gone. Sherlock wasn't sure whether or not what had just happened was a good or bad thing. He remained on the floor, confused for a few minutes before he heard frantic footsteps on the stairs and Lestrade burst in a moment later. He stopped in his tracks.

"What's that?"

Sherlock blinked up at him, a soft noise coming from his mouth before he hastily tucked the list into his breast pocket. "Oh. Nothing, nothing at all."

"Riiight. Why are you sitting on the floor?"

Sherlock shook his head and bounced to his feet, attempting to grin and act as though he hadn't (maybe) been rejected again or hadn't got it wrong (definitely) yet again. "You said something about a lead?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply as they exited the door, John appearing on the stairs next to them. Sherlock didn't want to look at him, so instead he stared at the floor.

"Where are you off too?"

"I got a lead on this Bossley character so..."

Lestrade had spoken for him, glancing between the suspiciously (and rightly so) quiet Sherlock and the still red faded but now fully dressed doctor.

"Oh right. Good, that's good."

Sherlock bit his lip and finally forced himself to look into the doctors eyes, his face was slightly confused and embarrassed and yet again Sherlock was angered by his own ability to see emotion in other people, work out their relationships, their motives and yet he couldn't do it himself. He couldn't seem to master the art of emotions and relationships and all that waffle without getting it drastically wrong at every stage. Much more he resented the others for it, it come so easily to them, and of course there was the fact he simply couldn't read John when it came to things like this.

Vastly irritating.

"You coming?"

Johns blush deepened and he looked away. "No, I really do have some hours to fill so..."

Sherlock nodded and pressed on Lestrade's back indicating he should carry on, rushing down behind him so they were both almost running as they left the front door. (He had again been struck by the desire to both run away from and cling to John. This time he took the former.)

Once in the detective inspectors' car Sherlock stared (glared) out of the other window and sniffed, trying not to cough. Lestrade had a history of reporting illness to Mycroft which always led to a visit from his sibling. Something he would enjoy avoiding.

He was also pointedly ignoring the glances Lestrade was giving him. "Okay, what was that about?"

He said nothing.

"Oh come on, I may not be the world's only consulting detective but I'm also not blind."

"John and I had a disagreement."

"No shit Sherlock. I meant what was it about? He always comes with you. _Always_."

Sherlock finally turned to him, just as they pulled up outside a dingy bar, a hand-painted wooden sign squeaked in the wind, the word '**Jacks**' and a painting of a second world war bomb with a golden halo underneath.

Light drizzle, large black clouds and the quickly darkening sky making it seem like a mythical meeting place for wizards like in that book Mummy had insisted Sherlock read as a child.(King of the rings or something like that...)

"I am not entirely sure."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow but wisely did not comment, slipping from his seat and nodding with his head to indicate Sherlock should follow. (A habit of his.) He caught up with him as they pushed through crowds of large heavy breathing men, sweat and the bitter taste of beer filled his senses and he retched dryly, a painful wheeze from his chest reminding him for the fact he had a rather nasty chest infection and probably shouldn't be scouting for leads in a dingy, mouldy, damp pub in some long forgotten backstreet.

"How exactly did you get this lead?"

Lestrade fixed him with an amused look. "Just because I'm not you doesn't mean I'm bad at my job."

It was true; Lestrade for his utter blindness of the obvious facts was the best of a bad bunch. The best of Scotland yard in the very least. If he would just look, focus properly than one day he could be almost as good as Sherlock (almost of course. Nobody could be **as** good.)

"So what is this lead then?"

"It's not a what, it's a who."

Sherlock frowned and suddenly a large pint of beer landed in front of him, an extremely tall bearded man grinning widely at him and then Lestrade. "Greg, it is nice to see you again."

The man spoke with a soft Irish lilt, his voice had the air of a man capable of both booming proclamations and soft lullaby. But Sherlock was frowning for a different reason.

"Greg?"

Lestrade turned to him his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Sherlock blinked, well that was odd. "Your name is Greg?"

Lestrade titled his head and sighed. "You didn't know that?"

Sherlock shook his head, and his eyes returned to the now beaming man who was leant on the other side of the bar, black shirt rolled to the sleeves and large muscular arms tensing as he scratched through the rough hair on his face, blue almost white eyes surrounded by laughter lines and thick brown hair flecked with grey.

He looked like a vicar but then it was too obvious, he was wearing a dog collar after all and now he looked the man had also served in the military although...something about his stance indicated a history of dance or gymnastics.

(Sherlock ignored the two men's conversation as Lestrade fished for information. Bossley was unimportant now Sherlock had returned to John. The detective had no feelings regarding him whatsoever.)

"Dance or gymnastics."

The man laughed ignoring the fact Sherlock had just interrupted their conversation.

"Ballet actually."

"Ballet...interesting for a man of your stature."

"It was many years ago, long before I looked like this."

"Before you enlisted you mean."

Surprisingly the man did not act surprised as most people did, instead he laughed again his voice like clapping of a heavy wooden door in a storm. "Yes, so I presume you already know that once in the army I had something of a religious awakening and was ordained..."

"In Russia no doubt."

The man nodded and laughed again lifting his glass to gulp almost half of it in one go, having no effect on his easy smile.

"Father Jack. A pleasure to meet you Mister Holmes."

He lifted an enormous hand and Sherlock shook it, his palms were rough and he had a tattoo of a cross just beneath the knuckle on his thumb, grey-green from age. A strange man.

"So, you said you have heard something?"

Lestrade had been sipping at his drink throughout the exchange with a bored expression on his face (he had seen Sherlock do this many times in the past after all.) but now he was leaning in, speaking softly so Sherlock could only just hear him.

"I have been informed that Mr. Bossley is partial to the honourable pastime of gardening and owns a plot on an allotment not far from his mistress's land."

"Ah I see."

The vicar nodded his head and leant back on his heels pointing down the bar at a couple of men who were bellowing at each other.

"This is a peaceful house. Sit down and shut up or by gods will I will dispose of you myself."

He pointed a meaty fist at them and the men simmered down almost instantly, one crossing the room to sit at another wall muttering the word sorry under his breath. Sherlock frowned, his head was beginning to ache and the explosive booming of father Jacks voice sent pulses of pain across his skull, he coughed ribs burning as he took quick gasping breaths. Perhaps he should get John to give him another check up (If of course he would agree to that after the sofa incident.)

"Our friend often goes there to relax during the early hours of the morning whilst his mistress is sleeping."

He had an extraordinary talent for switching between the two extremes, this father Jack. Lestrade nodded at him, finishing his drink. "Right, well. Thanks Jack."

"Not a problem."

Lestrade glanced to his side before sliding a fifty pound note across the bar. "For the congregation."

"Bless you."

Jack smiled and picked up the note, sliding it under the edge of his sleeve. "And you Mister Holmes."

Sherlock just ducked his head and let Lestrade lead him out, shivering as they exited into a torrential downpour, running to get into Lestrade's vehicle as quickly as possible.

"Have you eaten?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leant against the window watching the zig zagging of the water as it ran down the glass.

"I thought it was impossible but you are even paler than usual. Come on I'll pay."

"You mean Mycroft will pay. That is who just text you right now."

Lestrade to his credit didn't seem embarrassed although he did slip the mobile back into his pocket. "Come on, or would you rather John found out you haven't been eating and that you got sick?"

"He already suspects that I am."

"He knows you haven't slept either?"

"I did sleep...for a while."

"Hey I am just trying to look out for you here and frankly you look like shit. Do you really think John would find _this_ attractive?"

He span the rear view mirror towards the detective and Sherlock winced at his reflection. His skin was almost green with the paleness of it, dark purple bags under his eyes and the still fading wounds made him look like some sort of zombie. He sighed.

"Fine."

By the time they returned to the flat, Lestrade waving Sherlock out of his car with a smug grin, it had been more than a few hours and he was thankful to return home. Lestrade had forced him to eat something he called a 'big mac meal' and Sherlock had choked it down with a glare on his face the entire time. He had been tempted to ask the detective his impressions of the sofa incident but decided that perhaps it was best left between just him and the doctor.

He took his time climbing the stairs, turning the corner fully expecting to have the flat to himself (He deftly ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach. John was at the surgery, with _her_.)

To his surprise John was sat at the desk in the living room, eyes glued to his laptop screen. The detective paused, he hadn't been detected yet.

He stared at the back of Johns head, his shoulders were tense, hand frozen on the mouse and he was read and re-reading the email on screen with his lips pressed tightly together. Sherlock made sure to stamp his feet a little when he walked in and John jolted as if shocked by electricity, slamming his hand against the table in shock.

He winced at the loud crack and John sucked in a breath through his teeth, holding the appendage as he stared at Sherlock. "I see Harry has asked you to visit her."

John sighed and tilted his head at the detective. "How could you possible know that?"

"You only get that tense when she mentions you visiting her now she is clean."

John sighed his shoulders slumping. "She says she wants me to come to her 10 weeks sober celebration."

"But you don't want to."

"I told you, we never got on. Also it would mean staying for at least one night at her place if not longer and quite frankly you are too ignorant of your body's needs and too stupid to stop yourself going after that mad woman if left alone for too long."

Sherlock frowned at the ceiling. "What are you saying?"

"It's almost Christmas Sherlock."

The detective closed his eyes, and leant back against the wall. "We are going to your sisters for Christmas."

"Would you rather spend it with Mycroft?"

Sherlock sighed theatrically and crossed the room slumping onto his sofa. "John there is nothing I detest more than the yearly reminder that I am supposed to care about these people."

A less exaggerated but almost as devastated sigh made him open his eyes and he glanced at the doctor. He was looking at Sherlock with that strange light in his eyes, mouth downturned only a little at the corners.

"If you don't want to go to your sisters and I don't want to go to my brothers then why can't we just stay here for Christmas?" (He ignored the fact that they could both reasonably be split up at Christmas, Mycroft watching over Sherlock and John watching over his sister. It seemed completely impossible that he would spend this hateful time of year with anyone but John.)

Sherlock shivered as he spoke, wrapping his coat around himself and attempting not to allow the tickle in his throat to force him to show John just how ill he had gotten. There had been a drastic drop in the temperature outside since his return from the blue rabbit house and the thin panes on the windows did little to keep heat inside the Victorian flat.

John sighed and stood crossing the room to pull Sherlocks arms away from himself.

"Because she asked me. I get that you might not understand a person's duty to their family but I have no choice, she **is** family and I have to go, and you have to come with me. Even if you have developed a chest infection because you're an idiot and went outside in the rain when you had no observable immune system to begin with."

He pulled a stethoscope from seemingly nowhere and unceremoniously(but with a delicious blush) unbuttoned Sherlocks thin purple shirt and pressed the cold metal to his rasping chest. He tutted, shaking his head and sighing heavily. "I knew it. Now I'm going to have to get you a prescription for some antibiotics."

Sherlock made his best innocent face but John just glared making a low growling noise at the back of his throat and he stopped. (It was surprisingly..._exciting_.) "Have you eaten today?"

"Yes. Lestrade bought me something called a 'big mac meal'."

John raised both his eyebrows and for the first time since the couch incident he smiled. "Really? What did you think?"

"Repulsive."

John laughed and suddenly everything seemed a bit better, The heavy tension that had begun filling the room dissipating, his chest easing a little, stomach flipping when he realised John hadn't removed his hand from inside his shirt. He was just standing there his fingertips brushing over the detectives skin.(Ripples of goose bumps emanated form the site and he wondered vaguely if it was some form of static electricity. He dismissed it almost as quickly as the idea had formed.)

Sherlock coughed again and suddenly Lestrade burst through the door, freezing in the doorway with a raised eyebrow at the detective who was still staring up at his companion and John too continued the eye contact, a warm tingle shooting up Sherlocks spine as his stomach flipped.

Lestrade coughed awkwardly and John removed his hand turning to face him, pulling the stethoscope out of his ears and placing it on the table with one swift movement. Sherlock was left to turn his head slowly and glare at the DI who shrugged sheepishly from across the room. (Bloody Lestrade ruining everything.)

"Sherlock. I sent a team to the allotment plot... you have to come see this."

He nodded and got to his feet instantly. He only ever got like this when there was an interesting dead body for Sherlock to examine. The familiar thrill of adrenaline coursed through his veins and he grinned, back to work. He took a step forward pausing, awkward as his smile slipped.

"John?"

The doctor blinked, a little shell shocked, and nodded at him a small smile quirking his lips. "Yes of course."

Sherlock beamed at him and ignored Lestrade smug grin as he pushed past, riding high on adrenaline and the warm pool of pleasure in the fact John would there again, be there to compliment him, to listen to his theories. To _help_.

He made a point of sitting in the back with John as Lestrade pulled out of Baker Street and he glanced sideways his eyes catching on John wriggling his fingers and wincing. He reached out without thinking and took his hand. (He realised his mistake as soon as he felt the warm palm in his but decided to push on regardless, especially at was sending warm tingles up his arm.)

He began rubbing small circles in the spaces between the bones of John's hands, moving from the wrist up to gently rotate each of his fingers and pressing delicately into his palm. John sucked in a breath tough his teeth with turned into a soft gasp and then a low moan. Lestrade's eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror and he started coughing, choking as he watched Sherlock massage John's palm, the doctor watching the detectives long slim fingers work diligently.

He relished the fact John was simply allowing it, the way his fingers seemed to instinctively reach for Sherlocks and tighten around them for a mere split second before he let him go.

"Um thank you."

Sherlock just twitched his lips and looked out of the other window, only allowing a smug grin to spread across his face when John couldn't see it.

They pulled up outside a large wooden fence, a simply metal gate separating the pavement from a large field dotted with at least thirty plots, some entirely taken over by greenhouses other with neat rows of dead plants or well tended plots of turned over soil, waiting for the ground to thaw for planting.

The field spread up to a hill and Sherlock decided this thing he had to see was probably over the crest. Lestrade got out and gestured for them to follow, he led them on a winding weaving path through the plots and over the hill where a massive crime scene tent covered a two-plot sized area and forensics teams and police were swarming everywhere although nobody seemed to be going in or out of the tent.

"I told them to wait until you had a look."

(This was why he liked Lestrade, although like was a strong term.) Sherlock grinned nodding and John took a deep breath before they ploughed through the plastic doorway. Sherlock froze on the spot and John bumped gently into the back of him, leaning around to stare at the image on the other end of the tent.

"Sherlock?"

He blinked, his skin felt cold, so very cold and a shiver ran up his spine. Not ten feet away like the vision of Christ arms splayed out to the sides, tied to a cross with some sort of wicker twisted wire cage over his face hung his torturer. He was completely limp, skin almost grey in colour and his well tailored suit torn in some places as though he had put up a big fight.

Sherlock couldn't see his face, hair flopping forwards over his eyes. He found it increasingly hard to breathe, staring at this figure of a man; it was almost as though he wasn't real. Sherlock gasped for breath his legs seeming to disappear from underneath him and then he felt a warm hand close over his and he was thankful Lestrade hadn't followed them in yet.

John gave his fingers squeeze and he sucked in a breath.(He had told himself he didn't feel anything for his captor and he was right. But the mere shock of seeing him dead, hanging, it felt like a angel had descended and sought out his revenge.)

"Sherlock, what is it?"

He sprang to life taking quick steps over to the body, peering at it from as many angles as he could without actually having to touch the beast, the doctor still attached to his hand letting out a soft gasp as he was dragged across the space. John watched him bob and weave and frowned at the man.

"Sherlock?"

"John it's...it's Bossley."

"The butler? The man who...who..."

"Yes."

"Oh my god."

Lestrade joined them suddenly and John let go of Sherlocks hand instantly, the two men sharing a knowing glance. Lestrade piped up.

"It's him isn't it. The butler."

"Yes, it appears his mistress wasn't pleased he let me get away."

Sherlock leant forwards and tried to calm his shaking hands, Johns stance getting more and more protective with every second.(Ridiculous really, it was not as though he could spring to life and attack him.) as he reached out to lift the man's head through the wire cage.

His heart was thundering in his chest and his legs suddenly felt even weaker, wobbly. The man who had beaten him, burned him, _tortured_ him was dead. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel but his stomach lurched and he bit back on the urge to throw up.

His face was perfect, not a scratch nor a mark, that is until his mouth dropped open and he let out a grating breath, tongue less voice just a gargled moan.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Wow you guys really pulled through on the last one. Another looong one this time, also big developments! So yay! Please review and tell me what you think. Your opinions are always welcome. (:**

Sherlock sighed, wrapping his arms around himself. The air in here was cold, cold enough for his breath to mist in front of his face and he blinked at the man in the bed wondering if he would notice if he stole the blanket. Instead he got up and rounded the bed with the aim of closing the window. But when he got there he was distracted by the aerial view of London, ordinary people going about their ordinary boring lives. It was as memorising as it was disgusting. He snarled and slammed the window closed, spinning on the spot to stare at the man again.

His eyes were closed, some sort of drip in an IV in his arm, body limp and as lifeless as it had been back at the allotments. Sherlock sniffed, the nurses had cleaned the butler when he had arrived, drugged up to the eyeballs and verging on a heart attack at every turn , Sherlock standing by the entire time watching his torturers life being saved. He sat back down in the chair, not long now until they discover him here. (In fact he was counting on it. Maybe John would hug him again out of pity.) He knew his foul mood probably had something to do with the whole torturer thing but he was only angry in bouts, the rest of the time he was blank.

It was extremely disconcerting.

He continued staring at the sleeping man, a strange fascination had developed and he had been like this for hours, staring and staring at his face with only the quiet beep of his heart monitor and the distant voices of the hospital staff. He watched Bossley's chest rise and fall and he frowned. He knew he was supposed to feel something, John had been glancing at him anxiously the entire way over to the hospital and then he had insisted Sherlock get a room because apparently passing out in a hospital corridor was a fast track to getting a nights stay.

The doctor had left some time in the small hours with strict instructions for a police guard to be at Bossley's door at all times to stop Sherlock going walkabout. He had been gone about ten minutes before Sherlock decided he was bored. (John's careful gaze had been the only thing stopping him form punching out the nurse who put his own IV in.) This time he took the IV stand with him and wandered the halls until he found the room, distracting the guard long enough to slip into the room behind him.

He coughed weakly, tugging at the sleeves of his jumper, another one of Johns actually. He had given it to the detective when they arrived in his room because Sherlock had said he was cold. (It made him feel a little warmer just thinking about it.)He decided that perhaps he was angry at the man in the bed, or that this was some form of post traumatic stress _thing_. He frowned why did he keep calling everything a 'thing'.

He was tired, that was it.

This happened sometimes when he hadn't slept for three days, he would begin to think irrationally. He glared at Bossley, this was his fault and suddenly the door burst open with a crash.

John was wearing the red sweater, holding a plastic bag with what seemed to be Sherlocks clothes in it, his other hand wrapped around a pill bottle. He glared at the detective who curled up a bit tighter in his chair. Perhaps John would go easy on him because he was sick.

"What the hell are you doing in here? What happened to the guard!"

"He got an urgent message from home..."

John shook his head, his eyes filled with something Sherlock couldn't put a name too but it made his stomach lurch and he looked down at the floor. John stamped up to him a bit and threw the pill bottle at him, it bounced off his legs and rolled across the floor.

"I leave your side for one night and you disappear in a hospital when you have a history of collapsing because you can't look after yourself only to come to where they are keeping... well I got your fucking antibiotics."

Sherlock just stared, John sounded so disappointed, so very angry and he slowly got up from the chair, bending awkwardly in his NHS issue hospital gown, wearing Johns bobble covered grey cardigan and a pair of baggy blue trousers. He knelt down and scrabbled for the pills, taking them off the floor and pulling himself back into the chair with a weak cough. John's angry defiant stance melted and he shook his head rubbing a hand over his face.

"Sherlock..."

The detective couldn't look at him. He didn't want him to see how odd he felt. It was as though he was sat at the top of a cliff all alone. Lonely he supposed you would call it, _pathetic_. Johns hands were suddenly on his and stilled his furious gesturing (he had been attempting to take the lid off the bottle for almost a full minute).

He then watched his fingers carefully twisting the white plastic top and pulling out two pills, tilting his head at the detective. He finally looked up properly, meeting John concerned gaze, all traces of anger had been wiped from his face and Sherlock resisted the urge to bury his head in Johns stomach like he had when he'd been rescued from that house.

That blasted house.

"Open up."

He was using that voice again and Sherlocks mouth dropped open obediently as the doctor dropped the plastic bag with a thump. Johns fingers brushed his lips, making them hypersensitive, as he placed the two pills on his tongue and reached out for the water jug beside Bossley's bed, pouring a glass and pushing it to Sherlocks lips until he took a sip, swallowing his pills.

Sherlock shivered and John sighed reaching out to run a hand through the detective's hair.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout."

Sherlock nodded and the doctor smiled a little staring down at him.

He began to feel a bit better about everything, the emptiness not so pronounced and getting weaker as the doctors fingers carded through his hair, his other hand holding his chin up so he could look into those eyes. John began another on the spot check up after a moment, a tiny frown creasing his forehead as his fingers grazed Sherlocks jaw in what was almost a caress. He manoeuvred the detective's long limbs carefully, eyes never straying from him concern so obvious Sherlock shied away from it. He felt uncomfortable, like he had done something wrong.

The detective lifted his hand to itch at the IV in his arm. It had been irritating him and the skin around it was now pink from his constant scratching. John paused and pulled his arm up looking at the IV and then up at Sherlock.

"Is that irritating?"

Sherlock nodded. John sighed, the warm air from his mouth ghosting over the raw skin making the hairs on his arm stand on end.

"I'll talk to your doctor about getting that removed. The antibiotics I got you should cover any effect the IV had."

Sherlock nodded again and John sighed rubbing a thumb over the inside of his arm, sending yet more warm chills up his arms and up and down his spine.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself glancing over to the bed, the distinct impression they were being watched making him a little uncomfortable and distracting him from the very nice slightly rough fingers that dragged over his neck or across his wrists.

Suddenly, as if to prove him right, there was dry rasping cough from the bed and Johns hands instantly moved to Sherlocks shoulders, gripping him (slightly too) tightly. The man in the bed just garbled something, his eyes staring up unfocussed, bugging out of his head but slowly regaining some sort of recognition.

Then his gaze flickered to the side and he made eye contact with the detective. Sherlock just watched him, his more content mood (purely Johns doing) seemed to dull into the background and he blinked at the man who had tortured him for weeks.

The man opened his mouth as if trying to speak but all he could do was gape ineffectively, a choking throaty gurgle emanating from him and he winced, a single tear running from his eyes downwards.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but then his view was obscured.

John had stepped in front of him in full protective mode; hands on hips, eyes no doubt boring into the weeping man. Bossley looked up and Sherlock detected a hint of fear in his eyes, whilst a sharp flash of something akin to pleasure shot up his spine at the sight. The detective smiled vaguely, dreamily and he stood, leaning slightly over Johns shoulder to peer at the decimated image of the butler.

John finally tore his eyes away from that disgusting gaping mouth and glanced at Sherlock, his eyes seeming to catch on something behind his head. His face set, eyes growing even harder. Then he reached out an arm yanking the silver coated bag towards himself (perilously close to Sherlocks ear, but then he didn't mind. As it happened John had actually taken a tiny step towards him, his hips and chest just brushing the detective.), reading the words and then thrusting it back as though it had personally offended him.

"They are giving him painkillers."

Sherlock sucked in a breath, he had never heard Johns voice like that. It was baseless, emotionless and he looked up at Sherlock frowning suddenly and spinning on his heel, whipping the IV from the bedridden mans arm with a sort exhale of breath. Sherlocks mouth dropped open; he couldn't believe that he had done that.

It was so very unlike him.

Te doctor shoulders relaxed a little as the man in the bed frowned in confusion his eyes catching Sherlocks again.

"No more_ medicine_ for you."

He smirked, a triumphant victorious smirk and then put his hand on Johns back, returning his focus to the doctor; he didn't like him like this. So rigid, blank. It was unlike the expressive man and to his surprise (and glee) John relaxed backwards into his hand, curling towards the detective for a second. (It surprised him simply because this was a somewhat submissive move and John, in their regular relationship, was anything but submissive)

This changed instantly as though he had read his mind and those strong fingers wrapped around his wrist, dragging both the detective and his drip out of the door and down the corridor at a punishing pace, as though the doctor was trying to put as much space between Sherlock and Bossley as he could as quickly as he could.

They found his doctor at the nurses' station and John had a quiet discussion with him which ended with the strangely cheerful doctor patting John on the arm, looking between the two men. "I am pleased to see Mr. Holmes has someone who is so concerned with his quality of care. You are welcome to make any decisions you feel necessary. I'm sure you know your stuff..." He chuckled deeply and slapped John again, **hard** on the arm. He had the air of a man who had been born puffing on a pipe.

Sherlock frowned, this was a strange thing to say but John just nodded and shook the man's hand dragging him ever onwards and back to his (hated) hospital room. As soon as the door shut behind them John pushed him towards the bed (something that made his heart rate jump up. But alas it was not as exciting as he hoped.)

He forced him to sit on the bed, carefully removing the IV and placing a plaster over the needle hole with steady doctors hands, that paused, stopping his entire body dead. He wouldn't look him in the eye, just stood there breathing heavily and frowning at the crook of Sherlocks elbow.

"John? Is this abou-"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

The doctor let out a long breath and turned around. Sherlock still wasn't sure how to feel but he knew he wanted John back, the normal John. He sighed musing on the fact John seemed infinitely more affected by Bossley's appearance than he was. How bizarre.

Mycroft made his obligatory visit at around midday, not even raising an eyebrow when he found John sitting in the bed next to Sherlock, a bumper book of crosswords spread out on his legs Sherlock frowning and thrusting wildly with the pen because he was frustrated. He didn't know who wrote 'One flew over the cuckoo's nest' and John wouldn't help him, he just sat there laughing as the detective got more and more belligerent.

"Ken Kesey."

John tutted and Sherlock grinned, watching the doctor write out the answer letter by letter. He looked up; Mycroft was leant on his umbrella. He wasn't even looking at Sherlock; he was staring at John with the calculating look the detective knew meant he was thinking about him, scheming. (He felt a stab of anger at this. Mycroft was not allowed to think about John. Ever.)

The doctor stared right back at him.

"I received a report that Mr. Bossley-" (Said with the tone of man who had just swallowed something nasty and was coughing it back up.) "-somehow managed to pull his IV from his arm. A nurse discovered him in the throes of withdrawal and unable to call for help."

John's muscles tensed his hand somehow finding Sherlocks thigh underneath the covers. The detective tried not to think too much about it but John squeezed his muscle and he shivered. It was very distracting and probably inappropriate.

"Terrible business."

"Yes I suppose it is."

Mycroft's sly grin spread across his face and he finally addressed them both. "Mr Bossley has been taken into custody by my people. I thought you ought to know."

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft gave him that bloody look again, glancing at the covers then up with a quirk of his eyebrow. "And how are you feeling Sherlock. I was taken to understand you collapsed from a chest infection yesterday evening."

"He is doing fine. Much better now he is taking his pills and is getting some rest."

"Good, that's good."

John had spoken for him but Sherlock didn't mind because his hand was still on his thigh. Nothing mattered expect that right now.

"Goodbye Mycroft."

His own voice was hoarser than he remembered but it didn't matter because it had the desired effect and his brother dipped his head and strode out of the door, pointing down the hallway as a team of men in suits followed him, presumably to Bossley's room.

John was silent for a long minute and then the detective looked at him to see he was being stared at. Large brown eyes bore into him and the hand moved off his leg rubbing through John's hair instead. (He tried in vain not to mourn this loss.)

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock frowned. No he wasn't, he wanted the hand back thank you very much.

"Yes. It takes more than a chest infection to affect me John."

"Sherlock, you know that's not what I meant."

"Yes but that is irrelevant."

"What do you mean irrelevant! He...he... You must feel something?"

"Not concerning_ him _no."

This made John blush and his gaze dropped, coming back a moment later. "So you are fine. No...no problems or anything."

"I told you, I am as sane as I ever was."

John frowned, and then smiled and the frowned again. "Oh."

"You were under the impression I have been psychologically affected in some way?"

"No...no it's just. The drugs he had you on..."

"Oh that. It takes a lot more than some drug to make me lose my mind John."

The doctor blushed even deeper a smile spreading right across his face. In fact his entire mood seemed to brighten after that. The detective attempted to continue his crossword but John kept staring at him, chuckling and then looking away.

"What?"

"Nothing. "

"John I am not blind."

"It's just... the idea of you being sane."

He chuckled and Sherlock felt the laughter bubble up in himself too until they were both lying back on the pillows weakly chuckling, Johns hand distractingly on top of the detectives own pale wrist.

That night the doctor even agreed to stay in the bed, curling around Sherlocks back this time. He got so distracted trying to decide whether he preferred wrapping himself around John or being encased in a warm soft John cocoon. That the doctor sighed into the back of his neck and sort of squeezed him around the chest.

"You are still awake aren't you?"

"No."

"Oh _haha_. Go to sleep. Stop thinking for five minutes."

(He didn't think it wise to tell John about being back at the house and how in the first ten seconds of his medicine his brain would go completely blank, and those ten seconds were the most terrifying moment of his life.) So instead he distracted himself again by concentrating on the fact that Johns breath was tickling the back of his neck, his arm wrapped around his waist, the other placed flat against his back suspiciously close to his heart as though the doctor was reassuring himself that the detective was still living.

The next day Sherlock didn't speak at all, just shaking his head for yes and no during his check out exam. He didn't like his doctor, he would have preferred John do it but apparently that wasn't allowed. In the cab on the way home to Baker Street Sherlock realised his list was still in the breast pocket of his shirt. He pulled it out (surreptitiously, he couldn't have John spotting It.) and read through the first few lines.

dear to dear John

I like that you compliment me when you think my deductions are impressive, which is always

I like it when you smile

I like that you let me share the red jumper, even though you look better in it

I like that you make me tea without me indicating outwardly that I want it

I like your eyes, they are very large and a attractive shade of brown

It continued along those lines but he had never managed to finish it. He wanted to have it perfect before he gave it to the doctor. Talking of the doctor, he glanced sideways to see John turn his head and he quickly folded the paper sliding it back into his pocket, a slight flair of paranoia telling him John had probably gone through his pockets after he had gotten changed and had read the note and was now trying to think of a way to reject him kindly.

And that was the worst part, John _would_ do it kindly. He would insist they remained friend and still lived together and it would be weird because John would know how he felt and Sherlock would know he knew and it would always be there hanging around like a particularly resistant spider in their living room.

Although now he thought about it, that **was** the situation.

John had heard it from his own lips and yet he didn't believe him. Sherlock frowned, he was getting a headache. This was why he had (fortunately) not had to deal with this emotional stuff before, it was confusing and complicated and distracted from his work.

Mrs Hudson had hung onto him for a full minute once they got through the door, talking to John the entire time about how Sherlock needed someone to take care of him. He had been too tired to remind her he was perfectly capable of looking after himself; he had managed, contrary to popular belief, to look after himself before John arrived in the lab that day.

So he went upstairs and John made him a cup of tea and he smiled because this was exactly what he had been talking about in the letter. The doctor was on his laptop for a while and Sherlock alternated between watching Jeremy Kyle on the TV and staring at his companion whilst attempting not smile. This was effectively cured for him when John snapped the laptop screen shut and stared across at him.

"I booked us tickets for a week tomorrow. You should be feeling better by then and I will finally get rid of this bloody cast." He tapped on the plaster on his leg and smiled at Sherlock who glared back at him, pulling his legs up so he could crouch in his chair.

"I don't want to go."

"And I don't care."

He sighed dramatically and dissolved into a fit of coughs but John continued to stare at him in the stupid unwavering unconcerned gaze. He was using that voice again too and Sherlocks mind decided it was time to push it and make him use it even more because as much as he hated being argued with, he_ loved_ that voice.

"I can just stay here. She isn't my sister."

"Sherlock, you are coming whether you want to or not. I will force you if I have too." (He decided then that hearing those words in that tone was a bit **too** much.)

He closed his mouth and turned his gaze back to the TV although he defiantly wasn't watching it anymore; in fact his brain was replaying that sentence over and over. "I'm going for a shower."

He wasn't sure why his voice was so loud but John didn't look up from his laptop, now reopened and Sherlock determined he was probably writing a blog post about how difficult it was to live with him.

"Mm, okay."

Sherlock nodded and all but ran from the room.

Sherlock spent the next week working from his (Johns. It was his own fault really, forcing Sherlock not to go outside. He had been told he was not allowed to do any 'leg work' because apparently that is not _good_ for him and he needs time to _recover_.) laptop until the doctor went to bed and then spending a few hours re-reading, reviewing and editing his list. It had grown enormously over time and Sherlock was becoming more and more reluctant to give it to John.

He hadn't worked this hard on any one task for quite some time and the pressure to get it right was almost palpable. One highlight however was that (now cactus free) John's room had somehow become John and Sherlocks room and he had spent every night since his return from the hospital wrapped around the doctor.

He finally made his decision and discovered that he preferred wrapping himself round John because then the doctor didn't have the option of leaving him without at least announcing it first. (There was something about it that was comforting.)

So the morning he awoke and found John missing was rather upsetting. That was until he realised John was bent over at the end of the bed, pyjama bottoms hiding almost nothing. He grinned and sat up a little bit more, watching the doctor struggle with a suitcase that seemed to contain at least four of Sherlocks suits.

"Good morning."

"Ah Sherlock. Come here."

He slipped out from under the sheets and for some reason he couldn't stop smiling, his chest felt lighter, the lead weight that had been balanced on it since his time at Mycroft's manor lifting more and more as his chest infection healed. He was full of energy and he bounced across the floor, slapping Johns' hands away to sit on the suitcase and zipping it up, shivering at the friction between his bare legs and the freezing metal zipper of the case.

John stood back and swiped a hand over his forehead. "Right. Thank you. "

"You are getting the cast removed today."

John nodded and Sherlock got to his feet. "Right, let's go then."

He was halfway out of the door when Johns hand on the back of his t-shirt stopped him. "Slow down there. I don't have an appointment until two."

Sherlock released himself from Johns grasp and turned to face him, wide grin and judging by the doctor's expression, manic eyes.

"I'm going to do some work!"

He turned again and stamped downstairs; ignoring the confused look he got off the doctor. Mycroft called his phone exactly at midday (he often seemed to do things at this time. It at least made it easier for Sherlock to be conveniently absent from the flat or asleep or anything else that meant his brother couldn't contact him.)

"Sherlock am I to understand you will not be visiting for Christmas."

"No. I am going with John to his sisters, but then you already knew that, so must you have a different reason for calling."

"This is true. Mummy is rather upset that she won't be seeing you and has insisted I extended an invitation to both John and his sister to visit the family estate this year."

Sherlocks blood ran cold. Under no circumstances was John to meet mummy. "No absolutely not."

"Sherlock I do wish you'd be reasonable about this. I would hate to have to ask John myself."

Sherlock glared out of the window (there was always a possibility Mycroft was watching him right now.) "You are threatening me?"

"Sherlock? Who are you talking to?"

John had entered the room having spent all morning attempting to tidy Sherlocks room. The detective had been banished after he had tried to help by burning some of the useless papers.

Apparently that wasn't helpful and wasn't safe.

"Mycroft."

"Ah is that him now? Do put him on the phone Sherlock."

The detective sighed and thrust the phone towards his companion. "He wants to talk to you."

John rolled his eyes and took the phone from Sherlock hand carefully, fingers brushing against his and Sherlock took his hand back with a tiny smile. John rolled his eyes, placing a hand on his hip, his shoulders drooping a little as he talked to Mycroft, updating him on Sherlocks situation and then he froze, eye stopping on the detective as if asking for permission. (He really_ really_ didn't want to go. But then...John was looking at him, big eyes almost pleading. Unfair really.)

The detective sighed and shook his head. His flatmate frowned and nodded his head frantically as if arguing his point.

Sherlock glared at him, he defiantly didn't want to go.

John frowned again, almost communicating the voice through his eyes and Sherlock sighed, giving him a stout nod. (He tried not to wallow in his failure. But then John's eyes lit up a little when he agreed and that was almost payment enough.)

"Oh I'm sure Harry would love to come."

Sherlock turned on his heel and stamped over to the sofa, throwing himself down. Well if he was going to have to go he certainly didn't have to like it.

"Yes he is sulking now."

Sherlock made an angry hissing noise and wriggled so John couldn't see his face.

"Oh no nothing I can't handle. Do you want me to put him back on?"

Sherlock rolled over and gave the doctor his best death glare but it didn't work and the phone was pushed back into his hand with a chuckle.

"Mummy will be so pleased Sherlock. "

He opened his mouth to argue but his sibling had hung up on him. With an indignant scoff he threw the phone across the room because he couldn't throw it at his brother and John barely looked up from his task of making tea.

"You are paying for a new one."

The trip to the hospital was awful, he sat bouncing his legs in the back of the cab as they got stuck in traffic, having been so docile, so quiet and still for so long his new energy was rocketing through him and he couldn't stop his creaking mind stirring to life, flickering over and over the deductions he was making of the people in other cars or walking around outside.

He didn't realise he had been keeping a constant commentary until John mentioned it was annoying and the detective tried but he couldn't make it stop. That is until Johns hand landed on his knee and pressed down, stopping his legs movement.

In fact all his thoughts suddenly crashed and just the feeling of that hand back on his leg and the strange (but definitely welcome) affectionate smile he was getting was running through his mind. His hand as if unattached from his mind slipped into his breast pocket to pull out the list which he now kept with him at all times, just in case something else came to him and he needed to write it down. John made sure to look him in the eyes, speaking in a softer more relaxed version of the voice.

"Sherlock. I knew moving in with you that you were like a hyperactive child and I would probably have to spend the rest of my life watching over you so you don't do something stupid. Now, I work very hard at this and I'm not _always_ successful but I would like you to try and shut up for five minutes because I'm getting a headache, my leg has been itching in the same place for three days straight and I'm still dealing with the fact I will have to bring my nosy alcoholic sister to Christmas with the Holmes family. So can you please just sit still for five minutes?"

Sherlock snorted out a breath through his nose and tried to stop his legs jiggling. When it worked he beamed across at John.

"Yes."

(He wasn't sure if John could tell that the very idea John had moved in with him in the mind of spending the rest of his life with him had sent his stomach flipping and turning like paper in the wind. But he was willing to bet John hadn't even noticed exactly what he had said.)

He waited outside the hospital whilst John had his cast removed. The doctor had insisted stating he could run around the block for a while until he had calmed down. So he did just that, crashing into the other man as he exited. They landed on the floor with a thump.

John let out a (unexpected) squeak and Sherlock put his hands down on either side of the doctor's face, staring below at him. He grinned.

"John! You're done now!"

"Yes I know that. Can you please get off me people are beginning to stare."

John surprisingly (and quite the opposite to the sofa incident) remained perfectly calm, speaking to the man on top of him like he was explain how to turn on the electric oven. (again. Sherlock despised the thing and battled with his flatmate to buy a gas lit stove. Successfully in fact.) The detective looked up making eye contact with a few spectators and sending them on their way with a fierce glare. He wanted to stay where he was for as long as possible thank you, John smelt very nice despite the tiny hint of antiseptic and their hips were crushed together, his belt buckle digging into Sherlocks skinny hips and yet he didn't mind because...well...John did smell very _very_ nice.

"We don't have to go to the train station now do we?"

"Yes. But first we have to go home and pick up the bags."

Sherlock sighed and John gently placed a hand on his stomach which made the detectives heart stop beating for just a second, warm chills spreading through his thin shirt and for a second his hyperactive mind wondered if John could feel his stomach flipping.

He dismissed it and bounced to his feet, yanking John by the hand so he too was stood up. He smiled at the detective who dusted himself down with a sigh.

"Thank you."

Sherlock just beamed and raised a arm, a taxi sliding to a halt beside them. John always hated how he could do that.

He was forced to use the underground because 'I'm not forking out for another taxi, plus I don't have any cash on me and you never carry any' which he hated because being crushed in a little loud rattling tin can with hundreds of other people was sweaty and infinitely distracting. He couldn't even concentrate on what John was saying (no doubt rivetingly interesting) because a group of giggling girls had surrounded him and kept whispering and pointing at him.

Then there was the tunnels themselves, warm wind blew through every walkway and escalator and made his shirt cling to him. Although it did have one advantage, John was forced to press himself right up against the detective as hoards of men in business suits were too busy to wait three minutes to go on the next train and so they were packed in, so tight that Johns face was buried in his companions neck and as the train hurtled around a corner with a loud screech Sherlock was forced to put a arm around the man to stop him collapsing into the giggling girls, who by now had gone almost ultrasonic in their high pitched wails of glee, pointing and chattering about him being 'cute' and 'adorbs' (He was sure he must've heard that wrong but apparently not.)

The train ride out of London was much better; John and he sharing a little table on which the doctor leant his elbows. He had seemed very tired, not getting much sleep the night before (He knew this because he didn't sleep much himself and he could feel John shifting around up until the small hours of the morning.) and Sherlock watched him get progressively more and more sleepy, his eyelids dropping blink rate slowly.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he wriggled in his seat, as though John was not in fact about to fall asleep, but was actually going to die or something. He wriggled again and the tension grew more and more because John didn't even notice and he opened his mouth to say something, anything to keep him awake because he couldn't fall asleep now, he couldn't and he shouldn't just leave Sherlock alone at this stupid table but all that came out was.

"I love you."

And then his heart stopped dead, and he sucked in a breath and slowly opened his eyes (They had snapped shut as soon as he realised what he had said.) to find John snoring softly on the table top. He froze, reaching a hand but the doctor was still asleep, breathing heavily and the panicking man frowned. His veins were pumping with adrenaline, and his chest felt strangely empty, like he had just leapt off that cliff and was falling through the air.

But then something new forced itself through his veins and he growled; it was _anger_. He was angry at himself. He reasoned that he would never be able to tell him the truth because that wasn't what he was like, he had never done this before and everything being complicated and weird just made him less likely to want to say it. He had gotten up the courage for a split second and John had missed it.

He missed it.

**Bastard.**

Sherlock spent the time switching between hating John for doing this to him and musing on the fact that he was snoring lightly, only just audible over the muttering of the other passengers and the clacking of the train on the tracks. He mused that eyelashes falling on pale cheeks shouldn't be as endearing as it was on his flatmate, nor should the way he clutched at his jumper sleeve as if seeking comfort in his sleep.

When they finally pulled up at the correct station he prodded his companion in the shoulder and John jerked awake, rolling his eyes and stretching. He led the detective outside and they stood awkwardly on the pavement, Sherlock holding the bags as John made a call. A few minutes later a green car pulled up beside them and a woman who looked extraordinarily like John got out.

Her eyes were the same solid brown and her hair a similar ashen blonde. She was shorter than him and whippet thin, although her stance was familiar. She had the stance of a soldier and Sherlock smiled sticking out a hand.

"Hi you must be Harry."

She looked down at his hand and turned to John. "Is this him then?"

John blushed and Sherlock retracted his hand. He must've done something wrong. He turned to the doctor but John just smiled at him, a warning in his eyes. He had to be nice even if she wasn't.

"Sherlock Holmes. I assume I am the _him_ to whom you are referring?"

She turned to him and crossed her arms, glaring up at him and doing a quick sweep of his body, eyes dragging from exposed scar or bruise to Johns own scrapes and bumps.

"You think it's funny do you? Making my brother, a _war hero_ run around that city like a headless chicken? He could die! Is that what you want?"

She shook her head, snorting out of her nose and turned back to her car. Sherlocks face fell.

"No."

She scoffed so he was sure she had heard him but she continued walking away anyway.

"I get the distinct feeling she doesn't like me."

John titled his head with a (almost disappointed.)_ sigh_. "I didn't expect her too."

He just walked away and Sherlock scowled. It seemed Johns ability to treat him like he was human, like he was normal, was not in his genes at all.

The car ride to her apartment was quiet (in fact he wouldn't hesitate to call it tense) and John kept looking at him in the rear view mirror, apologies written in his eyes. Sherlock just nodded and hoped John understood. He was plenty used to people not liking him, it was people enjoying his company he had a problem with.

Her flat was small, two bedrooms a living room with a small kitchen and bathroom. Sherlock placed the bags just inside the door as John clapped his hands together heading for the kitchen (No doubt to make a cup of tea. Odd that people seemed to hold a simple drink with the ability to make everything better.) as soon as he was out the door she rounded on him pointing a finger at his chest and jabbing to illustrate her point.

"Now you listen here. My brother went to war, he is a hero, he got **shot**. He needs to slow down, to live the quiet safe life he always wanted. What he doesn't need is to be tied to a psychopath and dragged around dangerous places just to satisfy some stupid desire of yours to be Mr. big shot detective. Alright?"

John appeared in the doorway and frowned. "Harry..."

Sherlock felt it again, anger coursing through his veins and he batted her hand away pointing his own slender figure a John. "You don't know him at all do you? John never wanted a quiet life; he doesn't _need _a quiet life. What he needs is adventure, danger. A purpose. He is a soldier and no amount of your _caring_ will smother that."

Sherlock couldn't see anything, he was just focussing on her eyes as her eyes widened, confused and angry looking from him to John and back, (Clearly she wasn't used to being argued with.) and then she slapped him. Hard across his cheekbone and he lurched sideways, staring at the heavily breathing woman in shock.

John slammed the mugs down and walked between them stopping Sherlocks voice in his throat with a glare. "Right. That is it. Neither of you two gets to talk about me anymore. You will be civil, gracious and for the love of god Sherlock don't even try to do whatever you are thinking. She is my sister and you are my...my _friend_. It's Christmas and for once, just once I'd like to have a holiday where I didn't spend it separating the people I care about because they are trying to tear each other's throats out."

(It seemed this statement was directed at Harry because she blushed furiously and stared down at the floor.)Harry opened her mouth to argue but John held a finger up.

"HARRY! Not a word."

She huffed out a breath and crossed her arms, rolling her eyes to look away from Sherlock. He was grinning, something John obviously found confusing because he turned to the detective and gave him a concerned look.

"You **care** about me?"

He grinned even wider; hearing that come from Johns own lips was intoxicating. John just gave him a stout nod and dropped his hands not breaking eye contact. Suddenly the tension was back, this time an entirely different kind.

"John-"

"Not a word. Now, we are going to sit down and watch crap telly while you two calm down."

Harry sighed and slumped into the armchair leaving Sherlock and John to share the sagging paisley sofa. (Much to the taller mans lee it was slightly too small and John was forced to let the detective stretch his long legs out over his, johns hand resting just on his knee.)

Sometime later Sherlocks stomach rumbled and both the Watsons siblings turned to stare at him. John got to his feet raising both hands. "Right. Now you are both calm. Harry is there something you'd like to say to Sherlock?"

She glared up at him and he said it again in the voice. Odd, it seemed to have a similar effect on her (Although obviously not identical to the effect it had on the doctor's flatmate.) and she glared across at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry."

"Good. Sherlock?"

The detective tried his best pleading gaze but John raised an eyebrow crossing his arms.

"**Sherlock."**

"I am sorry."

The doctor grinned and suddenly it was worth it. John decided they would go out for dinner and Sherlock was forced to change into a different suit and his favourite purple shirt. Harry appeared in her bedroom doorway wearing a white shirt and black skirt. She looked beautiful.

The effect was ruined however by John appearing in the spare bedroom doorway in an understated suit, black tie and shirt. Sherlocks mouth went dry and he cleared his throat feeling a blush spread up his neck. John was... _well_. Then he took it a step further by smiling warmly at his companion, a light flush to his cheeks.

"How do I look?"

(Sherlock instantly regretted wearing such a thin suit, and at once forgot how to speak coherently.)

"Ugh...uhhgm... You have been to Mycroft's tailor."(Thank you brain. Ridiculous.)

Harry chose the restaurant, a quiet place halfway down the high street, Italian food and dimmed lights. It was too small for his liking, tables crammed into every square inch of carpet. Their table was by the large bay windows looking out into the darkening street.

"Lovely place."

Sherlock just hummed mesmerized by his companion's soft lit face and neck and John kicked him under the table. He wasn't sure what that meant exactly but the stern glare he was receiving told him soon enough.

"Oh yes. Lovely."

"So show me then, show me this 'gift' of yours."

She raised her hands and bent her fingers as if putting quote marks around the word gift and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. He had told her he had a gift? It was probably for the best hat he didn't deduce anything, once his mind latched onto such a task it didn't stop until he had explained every detail he could see.

John shook his head. "No I don't think tha-"

"No. I want to see."

Sherlock sighed and John put a hand to his face.

"Come on." The detective (Never one to shy from a challenge.) looked at her, eyes tracking every inch of her and she blushed deeply.

"Does he have to look at me like that?"

John just nodded and kept his eyes on Sherlock, something about the growing smile on his face made Sherlock feel good, powerful. _Impressive_.

"You are a teacher, primary school. Just got back to work, most likely because you achieved the expected weeks sobriety. You are seeing someone new, a woman obviously, taller than you, sporty. Most likely also a teacher. You are worried that I am going to get your brother killed and leave you without any family; John is also worried about this. Another reason why you drink, you fear being left alone, deserted.

You miss your ex wife but this new woman is special, she makes it easier for you not to drink and you know Clara was bad for you and yet you still think of her every day, may even still love her. Obvious really, you are still wearing the ring. This new woman does give you hope, you think that you are falling in love with her and that scares you and rightly so. Your fear of desertion means you can't move on from Clara and it's affecting this new relationship...you shouldn't let it."

John kicked him really hard and he winced rubbing his shin. He looked up to see Harry crying silently. He turned to John who was looking at him oddly, placing a hand over his sisters but she snatched it away getting up from the table and rushing towards the bathrooms.

"Sherlock!"

"I... there was nothing I said that wasn't true."

"You didn't have to be so harsh about it."

"I'm sorry."

John shook his head "I know I know, you just don't _get _emotions."

Sherlocks voice was so quiet he wasn't sure John even heard him. "That's not true..."

He wanted to tell him, to show him that he knows what feeling is like, that he _loves_ him but Harry comes back and she is sliding into her seat and John is talking to her in that soothing tone, trying to get her to talk about her new job, her new relationship.

Anything so that Sherlock couldn't talk to her anymore.

In fact nobody did talk to him and he sat in his corner glowering and bemoaning his own cowardice. He had many chances to tell him, hundreds and yet he didn't. Was he afraid? (He would only admit to himself that he was.) it was ridiculous and suddenly his mind hit on an idea, something that would help him become brave again, not to care just enough to tell John the truth.

When they got back to the flat Harry went straight to her room and Sherlock (Habitably. He didn't really think about it.) followed John to his. He was surprised when the doctor turned around and fixed him with a confused glare.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep?"

John shook his head, raising his hands as though Sherlock was some sort of wild bear who would maul him given the slightest chance. (Close but no cigar.)

"No no. Sherlock listen, two grown men sleeping together when they aren't ...they're not... it's not... look my sister would just keep going on about it and I really don't want her to start on that because she has this theory that... look it doesn't matter why but you can't sleep in the bed with me."

Sherlock frowned, a soft pain in his chest and he took a step back "Oh...okay."

He tried to keep the disappointment from his face because now he thought about it all he wanted after a night spent being ignored was to be the one person closest, at least physically, to John. He tried (and he worried, _failed_) to smile like it was nothing and turned leaving the room before John could speak again.

He spent the next hour shivering under a blanket on the suspiciously squishy sofa, tossing and turning and glaring at the walls.

That hour felt like John had deserted him. He was alone again and he didn't even understand why. He knew that what they did wasn't the norm but he didn't understand why Johns sister would have a problem with it, although Johns words and given him a strange sense of foreboding s though there was something he was missing.

Something important.

Suddenly, a noise made the hairs on his arms stand on end and he rolled over to see John in the doorway, hand to his forehead a defeated gaze falling somewhat short of Sherlocks face.

"Come on."

He just turned around and Sherlock fought his way out of the blanket, struggling and attempting not to look too eager as he entered the room, beaming at Johns back and bounding across to the bed to slide between the still warm sheets. He wrapped himself around the doctor and gave him a small squeeze, taking a deep sweet smelling breath and grinning into the back of his neck. It grew even wider when he heard the answering smile in Johns voice.

"You have to be out by morning though. I still don't want to have that conversation with Harry." Sherlock mumbled something that wasn't quite a yes and closed his eyes, a soft smile plastered on his face.

That morning he woke early and reluctantly argued with himself. He had, sort of, promised John he would get up, and it was probably best that he didn't continue to fight and upset Johns sister if he was going to tell him the truth.

So he (extremely slowly) pulled back from Johns warmth and slipped out of the side of the bed, treading silently across the floor and out into the living room. He was lucky, he had only just sat down on the sofa and was scrubbing a hand through his hair when Harry appeared in the front doorway wearing running clothes and carrying an iPod.

At first she didn't notice him, half walking half jogging across the living room floorboards until she suddenly snapped her head around to stare at him. He blinked back at her and she frowned walking in silence to the kitchen.

He sighed heavily and scrolled through the texts on his phone. Mycroft's texts had been getting more frequent lately and much more demanding. (Almost all referencing when he was going to tell John how he felt. In fact he seemed to be revelling in the fact.)

He snarled and threw the phone at the cushions staring blearily at the pale pink wall opposite. (Mind entirely on the other room and the still sleeping man inside.)

"Are you fucking him?"

Sherlock sighed inwardly but showed no outward signs of shock. "No."

She sniffed and rounded the coffee table, settling into the chair with what smelt suspiciously and appetizingly like tea. "Don't lie to me."

"I am not lying."

He looked at her and she frowned staring him in the eye for second. "You do care for him though, a lot?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. His heart thundered in his chest because she was talking pretty loud and the idea John would hear it second hand just sent a pulse of fear around his veins. She waited but he didn't say anything so she sucked her teeth and tried a different tack.

"You were right you know...about everything."

"I know."

"So...you are a private detective...a good one."

"Consulting detective. Didn't John explain it to you?"

"He never really specified, he just talks about these cases you go on. Nowadays it's just a list of injuries."

"I know you are afraid I am going to get him killed."

"Can you promise me that he won't?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, his mind running over every snapshot of the times he had thought he had lost the doctor forever. His heart ached in his chest and he took a steadying breath.

"He is important to me."

"If he is so important then why do you let these things happen to him? Every other week I get a call from a hospital telling me he is there."

"I do everything in my power to protect him."

She nodded. "Well you're not as powerful s you think."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't think you can mess him around."

He frowned. This woman seemed to be having a conversation without him. "What do you mean?"

"If you love my brother I want you to tell him. I guess you're not as smart as John made out..."

Sherlock glared at her and she laughed. "He tells you about me?"

"Interesting that _that_ is what you picked up on, you aren't denying it then."

He looked away and she sighed, clearly realising just demanding it from him wasn't working. "So you aren't fucking, you aren't even seeing each other or anything?"

Sherlock shook his head and she took a sip of her tea staring over the rim of her cup at him.

"Yes. When he does call, which by the way is almost never, all he does it talk about you. Oh Sherlock did this, Sherlock deduced that. It's sickening."

The detective tried to stop the smile that bubbled up inside but he couldn't and it split his face in two, Harry smirking, so very smug when she saw it.

"Look. Just try not to hurt him. As much as he would kill me for telling you this, he is a caring guy. You know how some doctors say they are in it for the patients and they are really just in it because they want to be the big shot Mr. important oh look at me I'm a doctor, well John isn't like that. He genuinely cares about people, his patients, his men and surprisingly _you_."

"Why is that so surprising?" (Frankly she was just being offensive. There were lots of things about Sherlock that could endear him to someone... well; at least he thought there were.)

She shook her head, a smile on her face. Then in a move that shocked even Sherlock she reached across the small space and patted him on the knee. "You know, maybe I was wrong about you."

The detective nodded his head and in typical perfect timing John appeared in the doorway, yawning and scratching his stomach. He looked divine.

Sherlock caught Harrys raised eyebrow and glared back at her. He was looking at him like that because he was still tired...he wasn't dazed by the sunny smile the doctor gave him when he saw Harrys hand on his knee. Not at all.

They spent that day in hell (or as John would put it, buying enough food from the supermarket to last until they left for Mycroft's manor.) Harry returned home before them to go to her AA meeting, which made the whole process go a little bit faster.

John slumped in front of the TV when they got in and Sherlock decided after two hours of staring blatantly at his flatmate that he needed a walk. So he got up, making excuses to John and running out of the door. He walked the streets for almost half an hour before his mind reminded him of the easy way he could get up the courage to tell John. (After all he was now under a lot of pressure to do the deed, as it were.)

The idea was supplied almost exactly at the same time Sherlock spotted a man halfway down an alley, hands stuffed in his pocket, music blaring from tinny speakers somewhere about his person. A drug dealer.

_Perfect_.

He grinned starting off towards the alley when his phone beeped. He pulled it out blinking at the screen and then scowling at the nearest CCTV camera.

**Don't ruin all my hard work. Mycroft.**

He turned on his heels and stamped away, another idea hitting him as he exited the council estate onto a main road.(After all anger always does lend itself to ingenuity.) There stood his haven, his rescue from the freezing cold streets and his own cowardice.

When he managed to return to the flat it was late... later in the evening. He thought...maybe. It was dark. He bumbled up to the door but no matter how much he knocked it didn't open and he scowled at it, kicking the stupid thing when miraculously the really really similar red door next to him opened and John blinked out at him.

"Sherlock? What the hell...are you _drunk_!"

Sherlock beamed and haphazardly scaled the small wall between the doors flopping past John into the living room and then the kitchen where he grabbed a unit for support his bottle sloshing amber liquid down his front.

"John! I have come..."

He dissolved into a small fit of giggles and John glared at him from the doorway, pure anger in his eyes. Sherlocks good mood faded and he tried to walk towards the doctor.

"John! Oh why are you mad? John John John."

The doctor snatched the bottle form his hand, peered at the label and smacked Sherlocks hands away from him as he stamped to the sink. The anger was rolling off him in waves.

"I can't believe... Sherlock my sister is an alcoholic! And you bring alcohol into her house? I can't... not even a sociopath would make that mistake."

"John I'm sorry, John it was important I had to tell you-"

John cut him off pushing back past him, fighting his limbs as they curled around the doctors shorter but stronger frame like the legs of a octopus. He really really wanted John to stop so he could remember the important thing he needed to tell him.

"Stop stop. Please don't go, need to tell you, tell you..."

John spun on the spot shouting out in his definite outdoors voice. "WHAT?"

But his momentum plus Sherlocks lack of balance made the detective spin and lose what little footing he had. He flew sideways with a yelp and saw the unit coming. It glinted at him like an evil marble witch's eye just before it punched him in the face and everything went black.

When he woke up he was in the bed, or rather on top of it. He couldn't tell if it was daylight because he couldn't open his eyes, the light here was so very bright. He instinctively reached for his breast pocket (Something he had gotten in the habit of doing as though he would lose his work.) and his blood ran cold.

He had he had lost it, the letter. The list that had taken him weeks to perfect and he had gotten stupidly drunk and lost it. He scowled at himself and decided he needed punching so he sat up on his elbows slowly, cracking open his eyelids.

What he saw he was not expecting, what he saw made his heart stop in his chest and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think.

John was sat at the end of the bed, the list in his hands and he was reading it.

He was reading the list.

Sherlock stared at him and John stared at the list and time seemed to stop for a moment. But it came back, a rushing force as the doctors eyes slowly crept up and met his and again they were indecipherable.

John twisted his body a little to face the detective and he read the list again, his hands shaking slightly. Sherlocks brain randomly fired off a thought that perhaps it was because it was so cold n here, an ice cold breeze blowing through the cracked open window.

He stank of sweat and alcohol and his head hurt and this was not how had had planned to tell him. Not at all.

"John?"

The doctor raised a hand silencing his hoarse whisper and his gaze flickering over the paper, he seemed to be reading the last line over and over. His eyes were hard, his mouth in a tight line. The detective stomach squirmed and he wriggled a little bit, tying to pull himself away from his companion, just in case he got violent. (Which apparently could happen, according to his internet research.)

"Sherlock... _Sherlock_..."

His voice was low, and it was that voice again, deep and forceful. The detective sat up a little straighter, pulling his legs away from his companion and running a hand through his hair. There was a long silence and for a second Sherlock was sure he was in hell, forever waiting on the answer, on **his** answer.

"Tell me... is this the truth?"

Sherlock nodded without hesitation and John nodded almost in echo, his eyes softening and taking on a hazy quality.

"Even the last bit?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and sucked in a breath, trying to speak, but no sound came out so he did it again, filling his lungs and hoping his limbs would start to regain their strength because his legs were shaking, his arms useless and his heart thundered in his chest.

"Yes,_ especially_ the last bit."

John closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. He then turned completely around to face the detective and opened his mouth, closing it again as if he couldn't form the words. The detective leant forwards, straining to hear anything, anything the doctor said was a relief. Even if it was the end of everything it was better than this.

This endless waiting.

"Sherlock, I-"

Suddenly there was thundering banging on the front door, yelling and frantic ringing of the doorbell. John sighed, his shoulders slumping a little.

"Stay right here. I will be back."

He got up leaving the list behind and padded out of the door without looking back. Sherlock attempted to breathe again (achieving some modicum of success. John hadn't punched him yet. That must be a positive sign.) and read through his list stopping at the last line.

I like that you made me fall in love with you, even thought I didn't think it was even possible for me to do that.

He waited, and he waited and he got a little bit anxious and bored so he read what he could from the spare room, his brain straining to think of anything other than Johns eyes, the way they had changed and what that could possibly mean. He squinted his eyes and focussed on the various knick knacks (as Mrs. Hudson would call them) dotted about the place, tasteless flowery curtains and peeling woodwork.

Harry spent little to no time in here; it was more storage room than bedroom.

John appeared back in the doorway, the careful calm from before wiped from his face, and replaced with what Sherlock could only describe as anguish.

"Sherlock, they took Harry."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you everyone for all your reviews! You guys all deserve virtual cookies. The next chapter is going to be an epilogue of sorts, so please review and tell me what you think!**

Sherlock blinked. This wasn't fair. It wasn't, not now, not when he was going to get his answer. He looked up again to demand what he wanted but John was pacing back and forth, talking to himself and gesturing with his hands, eyes staring blankly into the distance.

Sherlock leapt from the bed.

"It's going to be fine. He found me he can find her. She will be fine _fine_. It is all okay nothing to worry abo-"

Sherlock grabbed him mid step by the shoulder and shook him until the doctor went quiet and finally focussed back on him. "John! Stop panicking. I need you and becoming hysterical will not help Harry at all."

His tense shoulder slumped and he sagged forwards, his head landing against Sherlock shoulder. He mumbled into is skin. "Sherlock. You have to find her."

Sherlock nodded and patted the back of his companions head. His own needs could wait, John needed him.

Becker appeared in the doorway and ducked his head crossing the room to peer out of the curtains deftly ignoring that Sherlock had an arm around his companion, rubbing (what he hoped) soothing circles in his back.

"I'm sorry but you cannot stay here. I booked you a room at the Brighthall hotel. Your room is under Stevens."

Becker turned back to see both men staring at him. "Hurry, you have to get packed. Ah, the car is here. Downstairs in five minutes."

Becker brushed past on his way out leaving the two flatmates to stare at each other. Johns gaze dropped abruptly and fearing another freak out Sherlock ducked around him, sorting out the bags and pushing his friend out of the flat.

The ride to the hotel was quiet, Becker making a point of not watching the detective as he flailed mentally, trying to think of what he could do to stop John looking so damn defeated. He needed something soothing, something familiar. Something to remind him that things could be normal.

Ah of course!

"Here."

He pulled the red sweater off and proffered it to his (slightly gray looking) companion. John frowned looking from the sweater to Sherlock and back again.

"It makes _me_ feel better..."

He wasn't sure why he had felt the need to state his reasoning but it seemed to work and John took it tentatively from his hands, pulling it over his own head and running his hands down the front inhaling. He paused and looked up at Sherlock, the tense lines round his eyes and mouth loosening only just. Sherlock smiled, it had worked and John nodded his head vaguely.

"Thank you."

Becker coughed into his hand and when he again had their attention he gestured out of the window. "We are here. Room 112, I will call you."

Sherlock nodded (he had been on similar Mycroft funded 'protective custody' stints before and knew the drill.) shaking the hand of the commander and leaning across John to open the door. John pressed up towards him slightly, as if seeking yet more comfort and Sherlock sighed. He knew enough at least to know taking advantage of this need was definitely considered wrong.

The receptionist regarded them with an oddly disappointed look when Sherlock told her the reservation name. She slipped the key across the counter and glanced at John frowning. "Is your companion okay Mr. Stevens?"

"Oh yes, quite alright. Had a hard day haven't you?"

John didn't reply he just glanced around the lobby and then at the politely concerned woman. She shook her head. "Please, just call down for Claire if there is anything you need."

Sherlock nodded and pushed John to the lift, hauling their bags around the door into the room as John switched the light on. It then became quite clear why the receptionist had seemed disappointed. There was a double bed.

A double bed and nothing else.

Becker had booked them a double instead of two singles. John stared at it, sighed and moved on to put the bags in the wardrobe as though nothing was wrong. Sherlock didn't. (He vaguely wondered if he should either murder or award Becker for this.) It was not the sleeping in the same bed as John that was the issue; it wasn't that John was currently distraught that his sister had suddenly become involved in the downside of their work.

**No**, it was that he had, not an hour ago, told John he loved him and had not gotten a reply. He didn't know where he stood anymore, although John's migration towards him since the news did provide some hope that he wouldn't be left on the cold edge of the proverbial mattress.

The doctor slumped to sit on the sheets and rubbed his hands over his face. "Right. What now..."

Sherlock took up pacing, his mind whirring in the background, thinking through all the possible reasons, motives and scenarios he could glean from nothing. "We remain here until commander Becker calls, then Mycroft will have commandeered a command centre of sorts in the local area where we will go. "

"And then?"

"And then I find your sister."

John looked up at him, his face so defeated, shocked. "Sherlock... this isn't right. Working with you... my life with you is dangerous and I know that. I can deal with that, but she had nothing to do with it! Why...who would take her?"

"Well it is clearly Mr. Bossley's mistress. I am not quite sure of her motive, but I expect it is to teach me some sort of lesson."

John groaned and put his face in his hands. Sherlock waited in silence for a minute before he decided to speak again.

"I'm sorry John."

He was shocked at his own voice, so quiet, honest (so very unlike himself) and apparently so was John because his head snapped up and he pointed directly at the taller man.

"No. This is not your fault. I will not blame you, _you_ will not blame you."

Sherlock nodded and John seemed to snap out of the depressed mood he had been in, shaking himself visibly and sitting up straight. There he was the soldier. John got to his feet, back straight, arms bent slightly, at the ready and he went to their luggage, pulling out his gun and slipping it into his waistband. (It wasn't fair, John wasn't allowed to start acting in such a very...interesting way when there was a case and he wasn't allowed to even try and act on it.)

The phone rang out and John had grabbed it seconds before Sherlock, so their hands collided on the headset. John yanked it up to his ear ignoring the fact that Sherlock was standing so close to him. It didn't seem to faze him at all and he was glad, more indications John wouldn't revert back to how male friends normally act or in the very least back to when he didn't understand or allow the allure of a hug.

John nodded looking out of the window and put the phone down. "Come on."

He reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the wrist again, as though he were an unruly child. He nodded at the receptionist as he was dragged from the hotel, her eyebrows rising at John's steady determined expression, hand clasping Sherlock and the detective's wide grin.

It was intoxicating, the case was just beginning, what twists, what puzzles he would have. (He decided not to let John see the smile. He didn't need to know Sherlock derived any pleasure from this.) Sherlock blinked as he slipped into the back of an anonymous black car, he had gotten extremely good at understanding John's emotions and the reactions he would garner.

Now if only he could do it with the rest of them.

Becker met them at the office block Mycroft had commandeered, escorting them up to the gray metal doors. It was a tax office, key card entry needed and Sherlock looked around, turning up his nose.

The place fumed boredom, the relentless trudge of civilian life from every stinking stack of papers, every cutesy family photo every attempt to brighten the dull relentless office up. John strode ahead and Sherlock jogged to keep up as they were led up several flights of stairs into a conference room, several screens on a collapsible stand in the corner, a whiteboard, table strewn with notes and one of Mycroft's teams carefully sliding the leather sofa from the common area into the room.

Everything he needed.

John glanced up at the screens, man in headphones was scrolling through CCTV talking quietly into a headset as the other operators did the same. Sherlock brushed past his companion and slumped on the sofa, crossing his ankles and pressing his fingers to his head.

Now he needed to work.

Mycroft appeared with Commander Becker almost twenty minutes after they had arrived, Sherlock dictating what they already knew to John who was scrawling it on the whiteboard, stoic and useful in public. (So very different in private.)

"Doctor Watson. I am so sorry about this situation."

John just nodded and turned back to the board. "What else?"

Sherlock sat up, frowning, looking at what was already written. "I'm not sure. John, if you were trying to teach me a lesson of some sort why would you take the sister of my colleague? It doesn't make sense; surely they would come after you?"

John frowned, turning back to the board and then back to the detective. The room had gone quiet. (A bad sign. That normally meant he had said something wrong.)

"They have. She is trying to get at you by hurting me, taking my sister Sherlock. She wants me to blame you."

Oh. _Well_.

"Ah. That's right, that's perfect!" He got to his feet and joined his colleague at the board, both men staring at the pictures, printouts and random phrases that scattered the space. Everyone was still watching them.

"It won't work. This is her fault, that mad woman. Not you."

Sherlock nodded and made eye contact, both men staring at each other for a long minute, something in John's eyes making it impossible to tear away.

"Sir!" An excited yell from the CCTV area snapped the room from its tense silence and the two men rushed to lean around the operator, staring at Harry as she waved goodbye to a woman. (The new girlfriend obviously.)

They watched her take a back alley to avoid walking past the three pubs on the main road, turning out of the alley and onto a residential street a white van pulled up slowly behind her, a man jumping out and grabbing her around the waist. Walking her to the car with what appeared to be a gun to her side. She got in and for a second she looked up at the CCTV camera, eyes not even frightened, not a lick of fear.

She looked focussed, determined and Sherlock knew that look anywhere.

"It appears they made a mistake in taking Harry. Part of the strategy I observed whilst under their control was that they liked to use family members to call the target, using their fear and their terror to cause the target to react. This will clearly not be the case for Harry."

He looked closer and riding shotgun was Radish. Her eyes were hidden but her hair looked greasy, unkempt. Her clothes even more so. There was something distinctly odd about the image and he glanced across to John.

"Something is wrong."

John sighed and glanced sideways, bumping into Sherlock on his way back to the board, in a way that seemed all too deliberate. He didn't answer him.

He waited for a few minutes stood behind John, in silence, allowing him to lean against his chest a little. The room was too busy for the team to notice and Sherlock mused on the fact John had seemed to become indefinitely more tactile since his confession, although that could be attributed to the Harry situation so he decided not to get his hopes up.

So he focused instead on what he was watching John scrawl on the board, interrupted by the operator waving and calling his name. (He called him Mister Holmes, something he found pointless and irritating.) He turned and regarded the man and then his screen raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"John..."

The doctor turned to look as well to see the message now scrolling past all six screens.

**If you wish to save your sister doctor Watson. I would suggest you hurry.**

The image changed to a building Sherlock recognised instantly. "Tom's building supplies."

A warehouse on the river. (Something niggled in the back of his mind but he couldn't put his finger on it...) He turned and John was already pulling his coat on. Becker strode across the room and put a hand on the shorter mans shoulder stopping him in his tracks.

"With respect doctor. My team can handle this, it may be dangerous."

John's eyes widened, then narrowed with a tiny frown and pursed lips. Sherlock took a deep breath, this was not good. That was John's angry face.

"I am going to get my sister. You will not stop me."

Becker shook his head and John shrugged his hand off, trying to push past, all eyes on him as Becker gripped him by both shoulders (Mirroring Sherlock not four hours ago, shaking John from his panic.)

"No. I cannot allow a civilian to-"

"I am not a civilian!"

"It would be better if he stayed, wouldn't it Mister Holmes."

Sherlock blinked, why was _he_ being brought into this? He looked from Becker's steady expectant face it Johns outraged, pleading gaze. There was no contest really.

"I think John should be the one to decide whether it is too dangerous or not..."

The doctor nod stoutly at him, his eyes flashing with something that sent the hairs on the back of his neck on end and Sherlock grinned, Becker releasing the doctor and stepping aside. Clearly a good loser then.

"Alright. Orders are orders."

Sherlock was crushed next to John in the back of a large black van containing Commander Becker's team, all also studiously ignoring the two men. How very odd. He was sitting so close in fact that his hand had become trapped between his own thigh and Johns and his fingers were beginning to go numb.

He considered asking the doctor to move but suddenly a warm palm closed around his and he glanced sideways to see John staring dead ahead, tiny frown sill on his face, clearly forcing himself not to look at the detective. (This made his stomach flip and he had to remind himself not to stare.)

So Sherlock turned back and slipped his fingers between Johns, squeezing his hand a little and feeling the answering tug. It seemed to calm the doctor somewhat because his knee had stopped bouncing up and down and he closed his eyes for a second, a deep breath and another tug at Sherlocks hand.

He looked around them to see the team look away almost all exactly at the same time as if they had been watching the exchange. Obviously Becker had told them not to mention the situation, whatever the situation was. (He couldn't deny he enjoyed John's sudden dependence on physical comfort but it was frustrating not to hear his feelings from his own lips, not to hear his answer.)

They pulled up outside the warehouse and the van doors were flung open, identical men in identical black uniforms filing out in perfect step and Sherlocks hand was released as John jumped to his feet, pulling his gun from his waistband and adopting a similar ready stance to the other men. The detective followed him silently, watching from further down the line as John took control of the team, leading them to the large double doors and signalling for two men to go to the left, to the right and the rest to head around the building.

They could hear the sounds of female crying, getting louder and louder as they silently snapped the locks on the double doors and headed down a wide corridor, another set of grey metal doors the only thing separating them from the main floor. John put a finger to his lips and the team stilled as he slowly pressed the handle down, a jolt of his head and the team were in the room surrounding a woman tied to a chair in the centre, black bag over her head. Her terrified cries increased as the team called out to each other, checking for gunmen or guards.

But there were none.

(He decided not to mention his niggling feeling from earlier or the fact that the woman on the chair clearly wasn't Harry.)

John walked up to the woman and pulled the bag slowly off her head, holding his hands up as she cried louder. "Hey, it's okay. You are safe now. You are fine."

She took one look at him as he untied her hands and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing into his chest as he rocked her gently. "It will be okay."

He looked up, making eye contact with the detective over the top of her head, something dead behind his eyes.

He had saved this woman, but she wasn't Harry.

Back at the command centre John had slumped on the sofa, watching Sherlock pacing back and forth. Two hours later and he was no closer to figuring out what had happened to Harry. (Although John _had_ made him a cup of tea which helped somewhat.)

"Hmm clearly they are attempting to distract us, to lay false plans...but why? What is the purpose?"

"Maybe they are buying time."

"Time for what though?"

John frowned. "I don't know."

Sherlock put his hands to his head and screwed his eyes shut, his mind couldn't find it. He didn't have enough data. The operator's voice piped up again.

"Mister Holmes!"

He span on his heels and rushed to the screens, leaning over the operator to watch the writing scroll again.

**Oh well. Better luck next time Sir. That pretty little mind of yours is failing you so soon? Pity.**

Sherlock frowned; there was something about that turn of phrase, those words that seemed so familiar. He scowled at it, his brain replaying the words over and over and they seemingly took on a voice of their own but he couldn't place it.

A picture flashed up, this time a multi-story car park somewhere near a restaurant called 'Monica's' the flickering of lights somewhere on top. John turned to him; in fact _everyone_ was staring at him.

But he didn't know where this place was, he couldn't focus. He glanced side to side and raised a hand. "Quiet!"

The room went dead silent, (He barely had time to feel smug about this.) his mind taking over and he couldn't see anything but the road map in his head. **There!**

"I know where that is, _Kensington_."

John grinned, relieved. He clapped a hand to the detectives shoulder and together they made for the door, their way blocked by Mycroft's grave face. He looked sternly at Sherlock, opened his mouth as if to speak and then reconsidered it, turning to John instead.

He took a deep breath.

"Doctor Watson, I have some rather unfortunate news."

John's eyes widened and he wobbled towards Sherlock a little, the detective taking a small step in front of the shorter man.

"This isn't about Harry."

"No no, not Harry."

John was pale, very pale but now he seemed to take a breath, hand brushing against Sherlocks fingers, before he reset his stance. He looked up at the elder Holmes brother. "Well, what then?"

"It appears the vehicle transporting Mr. Bossley to our secure facility was involved in a collision."

John raised an eyebrow "He died? Was injured, what?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock beat him to it. "He has escaped."

Johns eyebrows dropped, his mouth forming a strong white line, and he let out a breath through his nose, his eyes focussing entirely on Mycroft and to Sherlocks surprise (and absolute pride) his brother actually seemed to squirm a little under the heat of that stare.

"WHAT!"

Mycroft grasped the doctor gently by the elbow and lead him out into the corridor, away from the shocked stares of the team. Sherlock followed, he couldn't believe this was happening. Whether or not Bossley had escaped was of no issue to him, but to see Mycroft attempting to calm a clearly fuming John.

This was too good to miss.

"You are supposed to be infallible! You told me we didn't have to worry about that...that _man_ anymore."

"I cannot express my sympathies any more; I hasten to remind you that however difficult our relationship Sherlock **is** my brother. This is not an outsider issue John. I am doing everything within my power to find him."

John gestured to the detective, finger pointing at his face and Sherlock made eye contact with his brother who quickly looked back to John. He hadn't hidden his surprise very well.

"How do you think Sherlock feels, the man who tortured him is running free!"

"I expect my brother has no emotions either way."

"He isn't some emotionless machine; you of all people should know that!"

His voice was rising and this was no longer fun. He didn't need John shouting about his new found emotions to the entire building. (Although being defended was sending a warm tingle through his limbs that he deftly attempted to ignore, without much success.)

"John."

The doctor turned to him and Sherlock sucked in a breath, tilting his head. It had the desired affect because Johns arms dropped and he turned towards the corridor, walking a step and then turning back, finger pointed directly (bravely) at Mycroft's face.

"You had better find him."

Sherlock watched as John stormed away and then smirked at his brother and who raised his eyebrows, obviously still in shock. "Very protective, this doctor of yours."

Sherlock glanced to the still fuming doctor who was far down the end of the corridor, tapping out a frustrated beat against the elevator door as he waited for it to open.

"Yes, I do don't I."

He smirked and pushed past his brother, joining his colleague closely watched by Mycroft and the team members peering around the doorframe. The air here was cooler and he wondered if it would calm his friend. He had read about a study into such phenomenon...

"John. You didn't need to do that."

"He let him get away... I can't... the knowledge that he is running around free just... it's not right. Not after what he did to you."

"I am quite alright."

"And that scares me. Nobody should be quite alright after spending weeks being tormented only to find the torturer is a free man."

Sherlock shrugged. "He is unimportant. I do not feel for unimportant things."

The doors slid open and he stepped in, frowning when he noticed John had gone an interesting shade of red. Watching Sherlock with an odd and rather intense expression on his face he raised a hand and frowned as if to ask a question.

"John?"

The doctor shook himself and stepped into the lift standing motionless for a second before fumbling with the buttons. (IT shouldn't have been endearing. It really shouldn't.)

Again the team ignored them, trading jokes between themselves and checking and rechecking their weapons. John kept looking at him, looking away and looking back. Sherlock made a point of not making eye contact, although he did utilise his peripheral vision to watch John's expression switch between blank, determination, anger, tiredness and that expression Sherlock couldn't identify but made his stomach flip. (He also took the time to properly appreciate John's attractive features, after all he hadn't really taken the time since before his drunken escape.)

The car park was several stories high, the gates locked, no way in. Becker stepped forwards and began making hand signals, John dropping to balance on his heels Sherlock matching his poise.

"You two with me then."

Becker waved a hand and together they crept up to the gate, the commander kicking the padlock off with a steel toed boot._ Impressive_. He bent down to pull the wire up only to have it slide up a small way and stop. John sighed, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and dropping to the floor, the detective letting out a gasp as he was pulled down next to the man. He rolled under followed by Sherlock just as the security system kicked in and another metal grate slid down from the ceiling effectively sealing them in. Becker yelled and kicked the guard.

"Dammit!"

"It's fine. We will go on ahead. Find another way in."

(He was using the voice again and Sherlock resisted the urge to throw himself on the doctor, poised so powerful and ready. It was all rather exciting, and he grinned at the flip of his stomach.)The parking lot was deathly silent as they ran in single file, crouched down, up the ramps, the air growing colder and colder, wind whistling through wide deep ink stained skies and across the gray concrete to buffet the detective.

They approached the top level alone, the dark shapes of Becker's men lining up against the outside walls, faces upturned to the roof and what could be there, awaiting his signal. John held out a hand for Sherlock to stop and he did, allowing the doctor to climb the slight incline and peer over the edge.

He frowned and stood fully, his colleague following suit immediately as the doctor walked calmly around the ramp and out of sight. He jogged quickly after the shorter man, his eyes following the same path across the otherwise empty floor to where a black van stood, its lights on but no visible people or audible sounds.

Sherlock walked up next to John.

"Hmm, odd."

"Do you think she is in here?"

"If she is, we probably shouldn't go running up to it..."

"It's booby trapped."

"Most likely."

"We are still going to go running up aren't we."

"Well, it's no fun if we don't."

John glanced sideways and Sherlock shrugged, the pair moving forwards as one, approaching the van and pausing when at around ten feet away the door slid open.

"Well... that solves at least one problem."

John's shoulders set themselves in a taut line and he took a minute step in front of Sherlock. (He didn't even allow himself to start thinking about this other little habit of Johns. The idea anybody felt he needed to be protected was..._baffling_ to say the least.)

"You have my sister?"

Bossley was as well dressed as ever, although the effect was ruined by the deep wounds on his face and the odd gulp of his mouth as he swallowed his tongue less voice a gurgling groan. He appeared to be holding one of his hands behind his back, the other hanging uselessly by his side and Sherlock frowned.

There was definitely something wrong here.

"John..."

The doctor didn't seem to hear him because he was lifting his gun up, pointing it directly at Bossley's temple.

"Where is Harry?"

Bossley just raised an eyebrow and smirked. (There was no denying it now. He had to tell John. Before he did something stupid.)

"John...he doesn't know."

The doctor glanced to him, eyes oddly cold. "Are you sure?"

"I don't think he had anything to do with the kidnapping... but then why lead us on a wild goose chase?"

Bossley snorted and shifted his weight.

"That is the point then, to distract us, distract me? But why?"

John shook his head and this time Sherlock really looked at him, he was pale hand gripping the handle of his gun so tightly that his knuckles were white. There was something to John's eyes, a burning hatred that made his stomach lurch, it was the embodiment of what he had feared he would receive when telling the doctor his feelings.

Thankfully he hadn't been on the receiving end. John suddenly broke off and strode towards the man putting the gun to his forehead in a shift second. Bossley shook his head, pulling his arm out.

It was a grenade, a _grenade_.

He had shown a flair for the dramatic during those weeks. But a grenade? So uncouth, un-gentlemanly.

Unworthy.

Sherlock scoffed and took a step towards the two men, John's hand coming out to stop him in his tracks.

"Stay back."

In the split second it took the doctor to glance at Sherlock, Bossley had used that unusual strength to whip him around, taking his gun and held him down with one arm, leaving the other free to keep hold of the grenade. Bossley smirked and dragged John a step backwards, towards the edge and the driving seat door of the van.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He glanced over to the ramp, but to have Becker already having cleared the first floor was too much to ask so he turned back.

"It's her isn't it? Your mistress."

Bossley actually winced and gripped John tighter, taking another step back. "Somehow this is to help her? To distract me so she can do what?"

Bossley titled his head and suddenly John elbowed him in the stomach, turning on his heel and yanking the gun from his hands, but it skidded away and Bossley grabbed Johns arm and lifted his other hand, the familiar sadistic smile filling his broken features just as the soldier punched him in the face. It had such a great deal of force that it sent the man spinning and Sherlock was leapt upon, rolling behind the van as Bossley stumbled dropping the grenade, the explosion large enough to cause the van to topple onto two wheels for a few seconds before bouncing back onto the concrete.

John had his face buried in Sherlocks shoulder, he was speaking but Sherlock could only hear the ringing of his ears, his vision a little blurry. The only sense he could rely on what that of touch, John was laid fully on top of him, arms wrapped rather snugly around Sherlocks waist, one hand under his head as though during the fall John had time to consider Sherlock might damage himself head butting the floor.

John's heart rate was obvious through his thin jacket, thundering well over his usual beats per minute. (He wasn't sure what his own heart was doing because the adrenaline was coursing through his veins and Johns touch was too distracting to focus. Or perhaps it was the explosion? He couldn't be sure.)

Beckers face swam into view way above Johns shoulder and he attempted to wriggle down lower, so he could stay here in his friends arms until his ears stopped ringing and he could think clearly again. But rough hands were pulling the doctor off him, were dragging Sherlock to his feet. John's lips mouthed the words 'Are you alright?' and he nodded vaguely. (He so wanted to kiss those lips. They looked so enticing right now. In the half light of the on-fire van.)

John checked himself for broken bones and the detective was sure he had asked him to do the same but he was concentrating on more important things, like fighting the shocked smog of his mind to get back on track for this case. And he would only allow himself to think of it as that, because if he lost a case then he had lost the game and there are always rematches.

But if he lost Johns sister he lost everything.

John shook his head and began to pat Sherlock down, watching his face for any sign of pain, but he was okay, there was no pain. Bruising probably, on his back and elbows, but nothing more than that. His hearing came back a moment later but he didn't mention it because John was miming that he needed to check his legs for broken bones, and he was mouthing the words slowly, emphasising the syllables and it was interesting to watch so he just nodded and let John touch him, squeezing lightly.

"I'm okay."

John nodded when he was back on his feet. Odd that he didn't seem remotely affected by what had just happened. "Bossley is dead."

"Nobody could survive that."

"Where is his body?"

"He was thrown over the edge by the blast."

Sherlock glanced over to the explosion site, the side of the van was blackened and on fire, fabric on the metal spikes placed to deter pigeons, clearly caught during Bossley's fall. He turned back to John, and at once his muscles just seemed to give way because his legs turned to jelly and he was falling and John's arms were around his waist, half holding half hugging him. He put his arms around the doctor and leant his face into his neck, breathing in the gunpowder infused scent of his companion.

His mind fervently reminded him it ached for the puzzle, and wasn't it time he stopped acting all gooey and emotional; surely he had experienced enough of that for one day. (His 'emotional' part argued fiercely that it was warm and comfortable here in John's arms but his brain always won. Well, _almost_.) He pulled back and shook his head striding past the teams, time to get back to work.

Mycroft was waiting for them. John just pushed past him, shaking his head without a word. Sherlock paused to look at his sibling; he was paler than usual, genuine concern in his eyes.

It was vastly uncomfortable.

"It was a distraction. Although, I do now know what was bothering me about Radish."

"Oh, and what was that?"

"She feels guilty."

Sherlock pushed past him and followed John to the sofa, sitting next to him and trying to think of what to say to stop him from staring blankly into space.

"John?"

Well it was a start at least.

"What if you don't find her in time?"

Sherlock winced, John was relying on him. Now was no time to be thinking about wrapping himself around the doctor and not letting go.

"Doctor, Sherlock, go back to the hotel and do get some rest. We will inform you as soon as we get anymore leads."

Sherlock glared up Mycroft, how dare he interrupt them. Especially with stupid suggestions like that.

"I don't need sleep."

"It would be wise not to argue." (Oh how he hated his brothers smug superior tone.)

John got to his feet and walked out in silence. Sherlock watched him go and then got to his feet, leaning in close so only Mycroft could hear what he was saying. "The last thing I need is to spend pointless hours doing nothing when John is relying on me to figure this out."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, that look shadowing the back of his eyes. (He clenched his fists, reminding himself that punching his brother would only get him leapt upon by the armed team members. He didn't need that right now.)

"You would think better after at least an hours sleep, I hasten or remind that you in fact human, and humans tend to deteriorate when they lack sleep."

"You wouldn't tell me if you got a lead."

"Sherlock, I am many things but I am not stupid. I dread to think what your doctor would do if he discovered that I had kept anything from either of you."

Sherlock scoffed and turned away. It was true, and in the least he could make sure John did sleep. He needed his companion right now more than ever. He needed someone to bounce his ideas off and if John was catatonic then he was useless.

John looked more and more tired in the harsh lights of the hotel lobby; the receptionist giving the pair concerned looks as John zombie-walked to the lift and stood just staring at the shiny doors.

Sherlock glanced around, it was deserted, only to be expected at 4am and the only sounds were the tapping of the receptionist hands on the computer keys, her gaze drifting over to them every few seconds. Sherlock waved a hand and she blushed ducking down, so he approached her, leaving John to enter to lift and hold the doors for him.

"Hello."

"Can I help you sir? Or your...companion?"

"No no. Can you just make sure any messages are passed along promptly?"

"It is courtesy to hold messages to a reasonable hour unless in the case of an emergency sir."

"I know, but any messages should treated as being an emergency even if they state that they aren't."

He smiled warmly at her and she blushed even deeper, tapping away at the keys. "I can do that for you sir."

"Thank you."

He turned away smile dropping as he joined John in the lift. Mycroft had a habit of placing him in hotels with that policy.

He changed in silence, John in the bathroom for a long time, light spilling from the crack under the door and Sherlock pressed his ear against it to make sure he was still breathing inside. He could hear John doing what appeared to be deep breathing exercises, mumbling to himself between huffs of breath.

He considered knocking but then remembered he had no idea what to do or say if John answered so instead he turned around and crawled into bed. Mind still (Mostly.) concentrating on all the places blue rabbit could be hiding Harry.

Sometime later John turned the light off in the bathroom and crossed the room, slipping into bed. This wouldn't have been anything too dramatic expect this time instead of sliding backwards so Sherlocks chest would lie against his back he slid in facing the detective.

The detective kept his eyes closed and attempted to keep his face blank as John wriggled across the bed and curled up against him, arms around his waist, pulling him in tight so the doctors face was buried in his neck, legs wrapping around the longer limbs of his companion.

(He decided to politely ignore that he was topless and John was in just boxers and a thin vest. It didn't factor to into it. Nope. Not at all.)

He felt a haggard sigh and moved his own hand from in his hair to hold John to him, feeling him relax a little, muscles that had been tense for too long relaxing enough for him to take a shuddering breath and Sherlock tried to keep his own breathing regular, hoping that Johns body would automatically attempt to match his.

It seemed to work because John fell asleep ten minutes later, leaving Sherlock to spend the night wide awake and thinking hard. His mind almost reached the speeds of the times when he had been drugged, garbling and yelling as he went over and over every possible deduction he could make. (In fact it was like his own brain was attempting to distract him from the fact John was making soft noises in the back of his throat, hips rubbing against the taller mans as he dreamt. Yes, this was definitely an entirely **different** feeling to the way they usually slept.)

When he woke up the next morning John was back in the bed, drinking from a brown paper cup, sitting up but still not dressed. Instead he was flicking through his notebook, sipping from his cup and mumbling the words to himself as he read.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, it smelt like coffee and he perked up staring at the doctor with intent. (John had banned him from coffee after an unfortunate three day binge which left the flat without any doors or lampshades.)

John glanced down at the now drooling man and held his gaze, he certainly looked better this morning and he even twitched his lips into a tiny smile Sherlock almost missed. The detective scrabbled out from underneath he sheets and sat with his legs curled up beneath himself as John gestured with his book.

"Think of anything?"

Sherlock smiled "I have a few theories. Need to recheck the CCTV before I am sure."

John nodded, glancing down at his cup and then to Sherlocks hungry eyes. "Here."

The detective titled his head, squinting. Suspicious."Really?"

John pushed the cup towards him. "I need you awake, I need you...well, acting like you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow (He didn't think he had been acting differently at all.)

"I haven't been acting like me?"

John turned away and then back frowning a little. "It's not your fault really, so much has happened recently... and then you can't think as clearly as usual and it ... look. I rely on the fact you always know everything before anybody else, and it freaks me out to see you spaced out like this."

Sherlock sipped the drink, it was a bit too hot but he disregarded it to ask John what the hell he was talking about. "Spaced out? What are you talking about?"

"I just want you to know that no matter what happens. It's not your fault."

"I know that."

"Good." There was a moment of silence in which John scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced around the room. Sherlock didn't look away for a second.

"How have I been acting that is strange?"

John raised an eyebrow. "_Really?"_

Sherlock just shrugged, he really wanted to know what John was talking about. He hated it when people looked at him like he was missing something obvious. It was, after all, normally the other way around.

"You have... you just let me... you said that you love me."

"Yes."

John threw his hands into the air, exasperated expression and sigh making Sherlock frown. He didn't understand.

"See? One minute you are telling me you love me and the next you are watching your torturer blow himself up without even a hint of emotion. People don't do that!"

"I told you I don't waste emotions on things that are unimportant and I'm **not** most people."

John slumped back into the pillow, eyes wide shaking his head. "No I guess you aren't."

They were both silent expect for Sherlock slurping on the drink for a few minutes. John was looking at him oddly and finally he returned the gaze, sliding up the bed to mirror the other mans position.

"You punched him. In the face."

John glanced sideways and Sherlock smirked, his reward the first proper smile since this whole thing had started.

"He deserved it."

"That he did."

He was feeling much better, more focussed more fresh than he had for weeks and he strutted about the office, causing the fast walking team members to jump out of his way as he cut a brutal path back and forth in front of the sofa, dictating what minimal things he had heard or seen at the house.

Perhaps John would notice something Sherlock didn't. (It wasn't likely but then neither was the idea of Sherlock falling in love.) And then it hit him. He had heard it and dismissed it as Bossley had turned up at the time, but now he thought about it, it seemed more and more likely.

He clapped his hands together and span on his heels, running to the computer area and slapping his palms down on the shoulder of an unsuspecting woman who squeaked in shock and turned to look up at him, eyes wide with shock and nervous energy.

"You, you are searching for their financial records yes?"

"I haven't really found anything..."

"No no, look for donations."

She turned back and Sherlock felt John appear behind him leaning over his shoulder, hand resting against his back. He froze, mind wandering for a second as the shiver travelled up and down his spine. (He could feel the doctors excited gasps over the skin of his neck and his mind immediately started theorising how that would be different if they were alone...somewhere dark and silent so he could hear every pant.)

"Sherlock? What have you got?"

"Something I over heard...she talked about making a donation..."

"How would that help?"

"Here!"

The woman jumped up from her chair and ran to the printer pulling two sheets from the tray and handing them over. Sherlock beamed at her and strode back to the sofa, bouncing down and scrolling through the lists.

"Here, she made a donation on the upkeep of a theatre..."

"You think they took Harry to a theatre?"

"Yes, of course! She had these puppets, _marionettes_ and you can't get them just anywhere these days, except specialist shops and..."

"Old theatres? You sure about this?"

He turned and made eye contact, Johns gaze was intense and it seemed like the entire room was watching, holding their breath.

"**Yes.**"

John nodded and suddenly everything was moving again, people rushing past, Becker appearing in the doorway, beckoning them to that bloody van.

There was a different tension in the air this time, the men were silent staring at their boots and John didn't make any move to be closer to him, instead they simply shared a knowing glance as the van pulled to a stop and the team got out, single file, awaiting instruction.

This time Becker just pulled Sherlock and John in towards him. "I am taking the boys around the back. You go in the front. If you need us just call, otherwise you are on your own. Don't do anything stupid."

John nodded and the two men shook hands, a stout nod from the commander before they were suddenly bereft of the team, disappearing into the shadows like vanishing spirits. John tugged gently on his arm and together they ran up to the front entrance, crouching at the doors.

"Why is Becker letting us do this ourselves?"

"He isn't crazy. Also I told him not to interfere unless we needed him, it is easier to keep track of just you and besides you seem to work better when you aren't crowded. I am not putting more men in danger..."

John's eyes took on a faraway look for second before he blinked furiously and looked back to Sherlock.

"Ever picked a lock?"

Sherlock grinned. Of course he had.

The lobby was carpeted in hideous blue carpet, and smelt vaguely of rancid butter and sweat with the hit of mahogany that hinted at its long history. John crouched down and ran across to the large double doors at the other side, waving a hand for Sherlock to follow and together they carefully opened theatre doors to peer in at the empty stage. John went to close the door but Sherlock stopped him.

"Look at the stage."

There was a trapdoor, the curtains had been pulled back slightly and he could see the corner of the door sticking up, barely an inch above the stage level. John shook his head and slipped in, ducking behind the back row of seats. (He moved surprisingly fast, so fast in fact it took him a second to realise he had moved.)

Sherlock joined him and John handed him a gun, not the browning but one of commander Becker's guns. "Here."

Sherlock shook his head; he didn't want to kill her. Not yet at least.

The doctor sighed and put the weapon back in his own waistband.

They made their way down the rows, pausing at every sound, every creak, and every pop of the building settling on its foundations. When they climbed up onto the stage John pushed past the velvet curtain, the musty smell of long forgotten costumes and age old velvet filled his nose and Sherlock made sure to breathe in through his nose.

He didn't even want to know what the air here tasted like.

He pushed ahead of John as they reached the trap door, holding it open and peering down the steps. There was a faint orange glow coming from somewhere within and he could hear the strains of classical music whispering in the slight draught. He nodded at John and the doctor slipped down, dropping to the floor and instantly disappearing into the darkness below.

(He stored away the mental image of Johns slowly sliding himself down the hole, taut muscles and clear focussed eyes, eyes filled with so much intent. Well it wasn't decent and it certainly wasn't fair for him to look like that at a time like this.)

A moment later he too dropped to the floor beside John and they knelt side by side peering across the darkened room to a slightly open door. John glanced at him taking a deep breath and Sherlock joined him, standing and walking calmly to the door.

Just as he reached it a voice rang out. "Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock sighed. The two men entered the room. Harry was tied to a chair in the centre, under the spotlight of a over bright blub, the room reeked of damp and was littered with boxes and old stage props as well as a surprisingly large pile of broken puppets piled up against a wall next to a worktop, a half finished puppet lying on top its blank staring eyes accusing, sad as if it knew it would never be fully repaired.

Radish was holding what appeared to be a shotgun to Harry's head, the doctors sisters face as blank as Johns had been and she made eye contact with Sherlock first and then her brother, some sort of silent argument appearing to happen between them because John lowered his gun, and looked to Sherlock.

"Radish."

"Have you learnt you lesson, do you see?"

"See? See what?"

"You know what!"

Her voice was rising and John inched towards the two women, stopping when the gun swung around to face him. "Stay where you are."

John raised his hands and nodded, sighing.

"You listen to me. My boys are waiting, all I have to do is call and they will come through so don't you make a move."

John slipped back into the corner, his eyes trailing from the door they came in to the door to her left and the one behind her. There was no way of knowing which one they would come through.

"You took him from me. I didn't want to do it, but to be a good leader you have to show that you have no favourites, that there are consequences for disloyalty, for _failure_."

She was glaring at him now and Sherlock, put his hands behind his back taking a step towards her, pacing back and forth. (The familiar rush of adrenaline made his skin thrum with it and he relaxed back into his role. Confident, calm and rapt.)

"It's a shame really, that your little plan backfired. John doesn't blame me. He is as loyal as ever."

She turned her burning gaze to John who straightened his back, not breaking eye contact with his sister. (He wondered vaguely if he came off as smug, because he certainly felt that way. John was loyal to him above everything else. It was certainly something to feel smug about.)

"He is lying."

"I don't think he is. But then, you obviously are incapable of noticing whether a person is truly loyal..."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Bossley survived."

She flinched and turned the gun on him. "WHAT!"

"He tried to blow me and John up in fact. He tried to buy you more time, to_ help_ you."

Her face scrunched up, and she began to breathe heavily, a tear tracking down her cheeks, and she lowered the gun blinking at the floor, shaking her head in disbelief. "He...he did that? For me? Where is he?"

"He blew himself up."

"He...NO! You killed him. You killed Bossley!"

She raised the gun turning to press it against Harrys head, shouting now and in a split second it was over. The gun went off with a deafening blast and blood splashed on the floor, splattering Harry and Sherlock, the only sounds left the ringing of his ears and the distant scream of John's sister her brave resolve broken, the doctors soothing voice whispering to her.

It took a full minute for him to return to his senses and he looked around. John had wedged a large box against the door that was being hammered on from the other side, yell and shout signalling quite a few of her men.

Sherlock had reached forwards in that second and managed to yank the gun from her grasp just as Becker arrived, dragging Harry out of the line of fire, John diving to the side and Sherlock had shot her in the side of the head, an almost blissful expression of shock crossing her face before she crumpled to the floor.

Suddenly John was upon him and Becker was talking, pointing at the pair, not at all fazed by the still bleeding body of Radish. "You guys have to get them out of here. I can take Harry but I need a distraction, I can't get these handcuffs off fast enough"

The door thundered behind him as if to make a point and John nodded bending down to press a kiss to his sister forehead. "It's okay. This is Commander Becker. You can trust him, I will see you later. Okay?"

She nodded a tear breaking free from her watery eyes and dripping down her face, after John kissed her on the forehead she turned to look at Sherlock and he awkwardly waved a hand. Harry gave him a watery smile before Becker managed to lift her, chair and all, clear of the floor half carrying half dragging her through the door he had come through leaving the two men alone in the room, the box shaking and beginning to spill over.

John grinned wildly and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, kicking the box down as they ran past, banging on the pipes and shouting as he ran ahead.

"Come on this way this way!"

"Come and get us!"

The men's voices and footsteps followed them out and to the stairs, John climbing up ahead of him and all but pulling him bodily up on to the stage by his hand. He lay winded for a split second before he was pulled to his feet and they ran backstage banging and knocking things over, making sure they were followed.

They reached the end of the backstage area, Sherlock threw the fire doors open, they were free. They could leave this blasted place. But then there were strong hands on his arms and he was pulled backward with startling force, yanked into an alcove beside the door. He opened his mouth but found it stifled by powerful fingers and he glanced sideways as the men ran out, arguing amongst themselves and splitting up to search the alleyways that wound behind the theatre. When their voices faded the hand slipped away and Sherlock let his head rest against the wall, breathing heavily.

He managed this for all of two seconds before he was encased in Johns embrace, the doctor panting into his neck as he hugged him crushingly tight. (Not that he was complaining.)

"Oh god Sherlock, thank you. Thank you, you saved her. Oh god, Christ. _Fuck_."

Sherlock chuckled and John joined in, breathless gasps that bubbled up and the detective could feel them through their still touching chests. He felt giddy, high and couldn't catch his breath.

"Eloquently put."

John shook his head beaming up at him and then he put his hand on the back of Sherlocks neck, fingers sliding through the hair at the base of his neck and everything changed again. He had been running on adrenaline, the thrill of the puzzle, the chase, but now, now it was an entirely different kind of thrill and he let the shivers spread through to his fingers as John stared at him like that, chests together, Johns hand on his waist the other tangled in his hair and Sherlocks palms ghosted down his companions back.

It was all almost too much, suddenly so quiet just him and the man he loved in the dark alcove. Alone.

The doctor slowly leant up on his heels and frowned just a little before pressing his mouth gently to Sherlocks, his lips were dry and he smelt of gunpowder, the barest touch of blood and his familiar lemon scented body wash. Johns tongue darted out and Sherlock deepened the kiss, (After all if this was the only one he was going to get, he was going to make the most of it.) tasting Johns breath, the strains of the mornings coffee still there and he let out a soft sigh that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He stopped John from pulling back by biting down gently on his lip and he came back, taking his turn to deepen the press of their lips. Their tongues battled for dominance and unsurprisingly Johns won out, pulling back a moment later, and abruptly burying his face in Sherlocks shoulder, frame shaking a little with what the detective couldn't be sure.

"John..."

"**Fuck."**

"Well I can't pretend I haven't thought about it."

John laughed and looked up at him, his eyes wrinkled at the edges; finally back to normal, finally filled with that proverbial humour and warmth. His mouth twitched and Sherlock glanced at them, he really wanted to kiss him again but he knew somewhere that talking right now was probably a good idea, although he wasn't sure how anything could be a better idea than kissing John again.

"I thought... all this time I convinced myself I was just hero worshipping you or something, I didn't think it could really... and then you told me that you loved me and I...and the whole Harry thing..."

"John, shut up."

"I haven't even had a chance to think about it really, I wanted to pretend that it was totally normal for two fully grown men to share a bed like that or to...to care like that and I suppose it is and I would've been fine with just that but then you had to go and be ridiculously attractive, even in that stupid red sweater and treat me like I was special and let me into this insane world of yours and now...now..."

He trailed off staring up at Sherlock with that light back in his eyes, he was babbling. There was no time for that.

"John. Whereas I have no doubt you have a very long and very interesting lecture on your emotions I am not very good at understanding all this and your sister is most likely waiting with Becker to see you, not to mention I would really rather like to get out of this damp hell hole so an abridged version would be wonderful right now."

John laughed and Sherlock joined him, sliding his hands down to rest on the shorter mans hips. His heart pounded in his chest and all he could focus on was the look in the eyes of his companion. He could feel the pure dizzy rush at the base of his feet before John even uttered a word. But then of course he did more than utter it.

"I love you."

(Perhaps talking _was_ a better than kissing, if only for this one moment.)


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Okay wow. This one is a beast. Thank you to everyone who reviewed or favourite or alerted this story. Your support was just amazing and I can't stress enough how important that is. All I can do is thank you so... Thank You. A sequel is now up called Unfinished Business.**

John was nervous, that much was obvious, nodding and making noises in the back of his throat as Harry chatted about something irrelevant. Sherlock was crouched in the corner furthest from the doctor, his sister blocking his view.

Since John had given him his answer not much had changed, they had spent a day at the hospital in constant company so they hadn't had a chance to actually talk and John was exhausted when they returned to the hotel that night, just crawling into bed and falling asleep. What Sherlock _had_ noticed was John now seemed more reluctant to touch him, something he had no problem with before in public and it was frustrating. He would reach out to just brush against his fingers and John would pull away, giving him an odd look and turning to talk to someone else.

What surprised him was how much it hurt, pangs of sharp rejection in his chest. So when they left the hotel and got into the car Mycroft provided to drive them to his manor he made a point of not sitting next to John, of not speaking to him. He needed time to think, to figure out what he had done wrong.

Mycroft greeted them at the door, his assistant smiling politely at Harry.

"Ms Holmes. This way please."

Harry glanced to John who just nodded and she followed the woman up the stairs, her eyes widening as she took in the extravagant interior design of the Holmes homestead. Mycroft waited for her to leave before turning to smile slyly at his brother.

"I have given you the Bellamy room."

Sherlock smiled, and went to take the key from his brother only for him to hand it to John and turn abruptly, weaving through the assorted statues and plant pots to disappear. John stared down at his hand and then up at Sherlock.

"Why did he only give us one room?"

Sherlock shrugged (He knew perfectly well that Mycroft would have noticed the change in their relationship straight away. But somehow he also knew telling John this was a bad idea.)

"John, my brother isn't blind. He has probably worked out we share a bed and has put it up to the already apparently bizarre friendship we have."

"He told you that?"

"He did mention our friendship was odd, but didn't explain why."

John frowned and sighed heavily, dragging his bag behind him. They were quiet on the way up and John followed Sherlock, glancing at every door. He raised his eyebrows in surprise when he took him up to the padlock room.

"This is the Bellamy room?"

"Yes..."

"Why did he put us in here?"

"Mycroft is under the impression I hold some form of affection for it."

John snorted and pushed past him, unlocking the door and bustling inside.

Sherlock made a point of not joining him in sitting on the bed; instead he carefully unpacked and stored their clothes in the wardrobe. He kept his face buried in there for as long as possible, but his mind was niggling at him and he couldn't stop it so he shut the door and spun on his heel, hands on hips, staring intently at his lover.

(The very idea of calling him his lover sent a thrill up his spine but he would only allow him this luxury inside his own head.)

John was reclining on the pillows, ankles crossed, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling. He had removed his shoes, gray socks matching his shirt and the detective couldn't help but smirk. It was infuriatingly endearing.

"John."

The doctor lifted his head and smiled at Sherlock. "Yeah?"

"What have I done wrong? Surely you realise that I am unable to spot if the things I do offend you..."

Johns face crumpled and he leant forwards, bringing his legs to curl under him. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock shook his head crossing his arms. "You recoil from me in public... do I disgust you?"

"No! No. Sherlock I just don't want...I'm just not ready to tell everyone about this. It's too new for me..."

"You are ashamed of me?"

Johns shoulders crumpled and he got up from the bed, crossing the room and sliding his arms under the taller mans armpits to wrap around his back. "No, just...you have to give me a little bit of time okay?"

Sherlock wanted to stay angry, he wanted to make John see how much it hurt but the doctor was running his hands up and down his back, nuzzling into his neck and he folded, arms moving from his own waist to Johns.

(He also didn't think it wise to comment on that split second from John focussing on him, tilting his head to the left as if thinking it through and then the look of finality on his face when he seemed to think fuck it before he got off the bed. He wouldn't mention it but he would replay it over and over in his head.)

"You had no trouble touching me before."

"Yeah but that was okay because..."

"Why?"

"You were safe."

Sherlock was silent for a minute, the doctor rocking them slightly left to right and sighing against his skin.

"You think that touching me in public is unsafe?"

"It is now. Look, knowing I can... well I just don't want to end up being discovered in some cupboard somewhere."

Well. How very flattering.

He grinned wolfishly sliding his hand a little lower. "So, say I touched your hand like this-"

Raising both his eyebrows he peered down the length of his own arm and brushed his fingers against the back of John's hand before sliding his fingers between the doctor's thumb rubbing his knuckle. John shivered and Sherlock took his hand away.

"What harm could come of that?"

"Well...I would have no choice but to start thinking about your hands, which obviously leads to thinking about what else you could do with your hands-"

"Obviously"

"And then I would have no choice but to drag you off somewhere quiet and..."

There was a loud knock at the door and Sherlock swore. He glanced down to John's slightly flushed face and grinned, leaning in for a kiss. The doctor met him eagerly and just as he started to deepen it there was another more insistent knock. He growled into John's mouth (The doctor shuddered at this. Useful Intel.) and separated himself, straightening his suit before unlocking the door.

Mycroft's assistant was there smirking.

"You have been requested to visit Mummy."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. Not mummy.

_Anything_ but that.

He only distantly heard John greet the woman. "Hello."

"John, your sister is currently resting in her room."

"Ah...what do I call you?"

"Oh Anthea will be fine."

"Great, well if you could show me where Harry's room is I'll go see her?"

"Oh no. Both Mister Holmes and you have been requested to attend."

"Oh...right."

She smiled and turned away, disappearing down the corridor in a cloud of expensive perfume. John glanced up to Sherlock and closed the door pulling the still stunned man around to face him.

"Sherlock? Hey! Hey are you alright?"

"Oh dear."

"What is it?"

"Ah...nothing. Nothing at all."

He wrenched himself from Johns grasp and skidded across the room heading for the en-suite. He was combing his hair and attempting to straighten his suit when Johns head popped around the door.

"Okay what is going on?"

"John! Remember what you said about not mentioning this to other people? Great idea, fantastic!"

John frowned "Really? I thought..."

"It doesn't hurt...not even a little. Nope. So we are just flatmates and nothing else. Right?"

(He wasn't sure why he had mentioned that it hurt. Although he did say hadn't perhaps John wouldn't notice.) John raised an eyebrow, looking suddenly rather upset. (Perhaps he would.)

"It actually **hurts** you?"

"What? That isn't important right now. You need to comb your hair."

He leapt from the sink and started attacking John with the comb, flattening his hair and pulling his jumper to neaten it up. The doctor batted at his hands yelping and sighing. Eventually he just gave up and stood still exasperated expression not really denting his lovers attack.

"There... will have to do."

"Woah woah. Calm down and talk to me will you?"

"Nope. Not right now. We have to go see Mummy."

(He really hoped he hadn't winced then.)

John sighed shaking his head. "But we will talk about it later."

"Yes absolutely, whatever you want. Come on!"

He ran out of the room, waiting impatiently for the doctor to catch up at the end of the corridor. His heart was pounding in his chest and he rapped his fingers against the wall, trying to force himself to breathe properly.

"What is _up_ with you?"

Sherlock just shook his head and barrelled off leaving the doctor in his wake. He had been standing outside Mummy's room for almost an entire minute when John came trotting around the corner, face pink with exertion. He smiled and the doctor joined him outside the double doors, glancing nervously at them and then Sherlock.

"I take it she is in there?"

"Yes. Catch your breath... you have 30 seconds."

"30? What?"

"Mummy is very precise about timing John."

The doctor sighed and tugged at his collar taking a deep breath. "Okay?"

Sherlock glanced at him. More than okay. (If only he didn't have to see Mummy, if only he could drag John into the linen closet behind them. If only.)

"Yes."

John smiled and Sherlock leant forwards on his heels opening both doors at the same time. He was struck in the face by the pungent burst of floral scent and expertly fought the urge to gag. He swept across the room, coming to a stock straight stop in front of a small bistro style table and a elegant matching chair, in which was perched Mummy.

She was looking out of the enormous bay windows into the gardens, the wooden panelled walls, numerous potted ferns, flowers and bouquets making this room almost part of her beloved landscape. She still didn't look at him but Sherlock watched her slowly place her delicate china cup down on the table just as John joined them, indicating she _had_ noticed their arrival.

She was dressed in her customary green silk dress, every hair, every fibre in place. She turned and regarded her youngest son and his companion with an air that was definitely regal, perhaps something more than that. Ethereal in fact.

"Hello Mummy."

She looked up at her offspring and he felt that all too familiar shudder, he was being assessed. (He wondered vaguely if this was how everyone else felt when he looked at them.)

"Sherlock dear, I am so pleased you managed to make it. Eventually."

She lifted a hand and Sherlock bent down, pressing a kiss to her powdery cheek and she ran a hand through his hair sniffing and shaking her head. "You need a haircut."

"Yes mummy."

Then she turned to John. Sherlock felt his heart rate pick up, he couldn't conceive someone not liking the doctor, but it was of vast importance that Mummy did. He felt his stomach lurch at the idea John would somehow mess this up.

"You must be the infamous doctor Watson."

John froze for just a mere moment and Mummy's eyes narrowed. He ducked down taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, a charming smile spreading over his features. Sherlock's stomach lurched in an entirely different way, so he forced himself to look at mummy instead, gauging her reaction.

Her face broke into an elegant smile and he felt his legs turn to jelly. Thank god. She liked him.

"Mrs Holmes. A pleasure."

She took her hand away, folding it on her lap a slight pink blush high on her cheeks. Her regal, almost cold tone didn't seem to faze the doctor for a second. Perhaps years in the army had helped him build up a resistance to people with such a natural authority.

"Mummy dear, everyone calls me Mummy."

John nodded and she turned back to her son, a knowing look in her eyes. It smacked of that look Mycroft always gave him and he forced himself not to scowl. His brother **had** always been the spit of Mummy.

"Such a handsome man. An army doctor? Oh how respectable."

John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock has mentioned me?"

"Oh no dear."

The shorter man sighed lightly and glanced up to the detective, something shining in the back of his eyes. "Ah, I see where Sherlock gets his ..._gift_."

She smiled and for a second, for just a split second he was sure he had seen pride flash in those liquid black eyes. But it couldn't be true, she wasn't proud. Not of him.

"Yes, however my own gift is much less..._irrepressible_."

Sherlock ducked his head a little as John raised an eyebrow at him. Mummy licked her lips looking her sons' companion up and down. "You must look rather dashing in a suit doctor; I can hardly wait for the ball."

John first flushed and then frowned, raising a hand. "I'm sorry...ball? What ball?"

Sherlock's eyes slammed shut and he sucked in a breath. He had forgotten about that.

"Oh Sherlock didn't tell you? You did bring a dancing suit?"

"I...no he didn't I mean...I didn't maam."

"Mummy dear, it is Mummy."

She snapped her fingers and a man appeared beside her. "Please inform Mycroft that the tailor will be needed."

Mummy turned back and fixed her youngest with a piercing glare. "I expect you conveniently forgot the ball Sherlock."

"Most unfortunate..." (Oh how he hated the blasted ball.)

"Quiet, boy."

"Wait...tailor? What?" John interrupted them and the woman turned to smile unnervingly at him

"Well you will both need appropriate suits to wear."

"Oh no, I couldn't..."

"Nonsense. Now if you will excuse us doctor, I need to speak to my son. Alone."

John bowed his head as she nodded serenely at him, the doctor making confused (And slightly angry.) eye contact with him as he left the room.

"This is the man you have moved in with?"

"Yes mummy."

"He is working with you?"

"Yes mummy."

She looked back out into the garden. "You trust him? He is your...friend?"

Sherlock smiled and straightened his back. This he could answer. "Yes, yes he is."

She snapped her head back around raising an eyebrow. Sherlock sucked in a breath.

"Yes, yes he is _Mummy_."

She smiled and got to her feet pulling Sherlock towards her, pressing a dry kiss to his forehead. "I am pleased you have found a friend at last. After that Jeremy boy, well, I didn't think you had it in you, after all you were always such a strange child."

He sighed and leant back on his heels. Of course she didn't, she didn't think him capable of much. "Neither did I, mummy."

He had to fight to keep the venom out of his voice as he spat her name. She sighed and placed a hand on his face, but he wouldn't look at her. Not properly. "Maybe I will call Francis, can't have you at the ball with this hair."

Sherlock took a step back. "If you will excuse me, John professed a wish to see his sister. He does not know where she is staying."

Mummy tilted her head back and regarded him carefully. "Of course."

Thank god, he turned and all but ran across the room, stopping at her polite cough. "Sherlock dear. I am so proud of you, he is a good man."

He glanced over his shoulder but she wasn't looking at him. "Yes. He is."

John was waiting for him when he got back to the room. Thankfully he waited until Sherlock had reached the bed before he started a lecture he had clearly practised. "A _ball_? You never mentioned any damn ball!"

"I didn't think it would be happening this year. What with the blue rabbit and everything..."

John snorted and stared down at him from his perch on the edge of the bed. The detective sighed, he was still a little angry from his talk with Mummy and he scooted sideways so he could lay his head on John's lap, feet hooked over the headboard.

"Oh how very convenient."

Sherlock glared up at him. "What? You think I planned it like this?"

"I don't know! Anything is possible!"

"John, not even I can orchestrate that entire debacle...although if I did I would have to give myself a handshake."

"What? Why!"

Sherlock grinned. "If it wasn't for all that you wouldn't have told me that you love me."

John let out a frustrated shout and threw his hands up in the air. After pushing the detectives head roughly from his lap with the same hand that had been threading soothingly through his hair he bounced off the bed and threw the pillow he had been sitting against at the prone man's face.

"Stop it! Sherlock, you still haven't told me about the bloody ball! I don't even-"

"Every year Mycroft holds a traditional Christmas ball for his team and their families."

John groaned. (He pretended he wasn't still reeling, and feeling rather flattered that John thought him capable of initiating a scheme like that. If only he had that power.)

"Oh god. I hate dancing, just so you know I am really not looking forward to this."

Sherlock's grin dropped and he lay back, crossing his arms behind his head. "I am...this year at least."

"What do you mean?"

He had a pulsing feeling in the back of his head, lights flaring in his brain. Somehow he knew the next bit of the conversation he wouldn't like very much.

"Well, this year I might actually get a dance..."

John's anger seemed to melt for him and his shoulders dropped, raising a hand to point at the detective. "Wait...what? You haven't danced at any of these balls."

Sherlock shook his head. "Never?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

Sherlock blushed and loomed away, staring up at the ceiling instead. "Nobody wants to dance with me."

There was a long silence and then John's weight squeaked on the mattress by his feet. "That's ridiculous."

"What?" He sat up on his elbows and stared down the bed at his lover.

"I bet you could ask any one of Mycroft's team and they would've danced with you, hell I bet if you asked Lestrade he would've. Have you not seen the way everyone stares at you?"

(A disturbing idea.)

"I don't want to dance with just anybody John."

The doctor bit his lip and glanced up at him. "Sherlock, I told you...I'm not ready."

The detective shrugged. "That's fine. What is one more year?"

(He conveniently wouldn't tell John that being rejected, again, hurt like a kick to the chest. Especially like this, after all when he had realised how he felt the first thing he thought about was Christmas, was the ball. Year after year of standing off to the side, being looked at like the freak. The weird brother. Always silent, unseen, on the edge of the group. He wanted nothing more than to glide across that floor with John, with the one person who accepted him just as he was.)

John must've sensed the disappointment he felt because he put a hand on his ankle and squeezed lightly. "You never know... hey if you have never danced and I can't dance how do you suppose we were going to manage it anyway?"

"I didn't say I have never danced before. "

"What?"

Sherlock smiled, he would always have this at least. In private.

He bounced off the bed and strode to the middle of the floor holding out a hand. "You can't be serious."

"Mummy insisted I take many extracurricular activities in my youth. Thankfully she allowed me to choose which I would wish to continue when I came of age."

"You chose violin?"

"Among other things. However, I do remember some of the moves."

John laughed shaking his head and getting up. He paused for a second and for that second his stomach dropped. Surely he wouldn't reject him again, here in the sanctity and safety of their room?

John was in his arms in a second, hand gripping his and Sherlock grinned sliding his hand to his partners' waist, guiding the shorter mans to his shoulder.

"Now, just follow my feet, don't look down. Do what I do."

"Yeah, but backwards."

"Precisely."

John laughed and Sherlock tugged him a little closer, quickly taking him through a series of small easy steps. The doctor was surprisingly quick to pick it up and soon they were spinning and floating effortlessly, partly thanks to John odd ability to keep in almost too perfect step with him.

He leant his head on Sherlock's shoulder as they sashayed to imaginary music, body warm against the detective's skin. The window had been left open and a light breeze made Johns heat all the more noticeable.

"Not bad."

"Thank you."

He felt John lick his lips and then the doctor pulled back a little as their dance came to an end, his lovers hands clinging to him for a second longer than he expected and John tilted his head, soft smile fading.

"You said that the fact I'm not ready to go public actually hurts you?"

Sherlock blushed and turned away but the doctor pulled him back around. (He hoped his face was flush enough from the exertion that John couldn't tell he was blushing.)

"It is unimportant."

"Not if it upsets you that much it isn't."

"John, losing you would be more painful than the trouble I would go through to keep you. If I was to die to keep you happy I would."

The doctor shook his head letting out a long stream of air and rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus Christ. How did this happen to me? Really? How?"

Sherlock frowned. He had lost the conversation somehow. "What happen?"

"You! You can't just say something so...so bloody romantic like you were commenting on my taste in shoes!"

"You have a very good taste in shoes."

John shook his head and all but ran back to the detective, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him fiercely. Sherlock let out a surprised grunt and John smirked pulling him closer. (Not that he was complaining but he really didn't understand what had just happened. It was confusing.)

When they came apart the taller man put his head against John's neck, panting a little. "Does this mean you will dance with me?"

John laughed and kissed the top of his ear. "I don't know. I really just... I don't know."

"Okay."

"You okay? "

"Can I touch you in public?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but not like this."

"You think it might give it away?"

He slid his thumb under John's waistband and stroked the smooth skin there; his other hand grasping the shorter mans neck. "Yeah. Probably."

"Shame. I would to see Lestrade's face if he saw you with your hands there."

John laughed and clenched his fingers softly, rough palms up inside the back of his shirt. He looked down at the man and smiled, remembering the times when he allowed himself to daydream of all things. John was different to how he imagined.

"I did not expect you to be like this."

The doctors' smile dropped and he slid his hands down a little. "What do you mean?"

"When I attempted to imagine a romantic situation between us, I did not imagine you to be so...tactile."

"You imagined us... never mind. You know I could say the same thing about you. The last thing I expected was for you to be so...insatiable. "

Sherlock sucked in a breath, hand sliding from the back of John's neck down his chest and to his waist. Well, he was always one to live up to his reputation.

Harry knocked on the door two hours later, nervous taps giving her away. Sherlock stayed where he was on the bed, carefully replacing his shirt as John put his sweater back on and tried to stifle his grin. He stopped for a second at the door, taking a deep breath, his face dropping to an almost bored, blank expression.

Sherlock however made no effort to hide his beam, after all she had no way of knowing why he was smiling like that. (She certainly wouldn't guess he had spent the last few hours lazily making out with her brother between regaling John with stories of his long fabled shooting lessons in the forest nearby. As far as she knew Sherlock and John were still tragically unrequited.)

She followed John into the room, starting at the detective on the bed, head buried in a heavy chemistry textbook.

"Oh, what is he doing in here?"

Sherlock peered over the top of the book and glanced at John who was gaping at his sister. So much for good acting, couldn't even lie convincingly to his own sister.

"I require an assistant when I work. John is my assistant. I am working. What is more relevant is what **you** are doing here."

She laughed and John shrugged his shoulders, walking to the desk to rifle through the papers there as if he had been in the middle of it when his sister arrived. "Oh, Anthea came and told me we are supposed to go down for dinner, I told her I'd come and find John. Funny, now I think about it she never did mention coming to get you, I guess its common knowledge you would be working then?"

"Well, Sherlock is always working. Aren't you?"

"Hmm, oh yes. Very busy, very busy indeed." He smiled his best charming smile and Harry snorted, not noticing the wink he threw in his lovers' direction.

"Right. So are we going down?"

Dinner was quiet, Mycroft talking quietly to Harry as Mummy interjected with questions. Sherlock had no doubt she would like Harry, she believed teaching was one of the more noble occupations and had tragically even tried to push Sherlock in that direction. She was not pleased when he insisted he was to become a detective, even less so when he refused to join the police force.

He didn't eat much, halfway through the meal John surreptitiously moved his plate over and Sherlock took a few forkfuls form there. To his surprise it seemed his mother and brother literally hadn't noticed this fact and he just let Mummy's disapproving looks and her "You are too skinny boy." remarks to wash over him.

After all, under the table Johns foot was pressed up against his and he didn't tense up now when Sherlock accidently (Or not so accidently.) brushed their hands together or leant against him or touched him anywhere than on the arm. What did he care what Mummy thought.

That night when he crawled into bed John followed him instantly, sliding across the sheets and allowing Sherlock to wrap himself around the shorter man. John sighed and pressed himself right up against the detective, taking odd breaths as though he wanted to say something.

"John, whatever you want to say. I would suggest saying it now."

"Did you...who knows about how you feel about me?"

"Why?"

"I have spent enough time around you to know that telling me that, acting the way you have, it can't have been easy. I know you don't really understand it and I just..."

"You think I needed help."

"Well . Yeah."

Sherlock sighed and pulled back a little, John look worried so he smiled. "Mycroft, Lestrade and Harry."

Johns eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "WHAT!"

Sherlock winced, John had shouted rather loudly in his ear and was now blinking a lot and was shaking his head. Evidently not happy then. (Although he still hadn't let go of him so perhaps less angry than he thought.)

"I take it you thought it was less than that?"

"I can't... why did you tell Lestrade? When did you tell Harry?"

"Like you said, I needed help and other than you Lestrade is the closest thing I have to a friend. He seemed to find the whole thing rather amusing, although I expect he doesn't think I would have gotten very far with it. Harry accosted me the morning you kicked me out of bed and demanded the truth. She told me not to hurt you and that I should tell you soon."

"And that's when you went out and got drunk?"

"I was going to do a bit more than that but my brother stopped me. Alcohol was the next best thing."

John punched him in the chest, and he recoiled in shock. That _hurt_.

"You are an idiot. Don't you ever even think about doing...that again. No drugs, no alcohol, no stimulants of any kind."

"What about coffee? I am allowed coffee now aren't I?"

"That was a brief break in that particular embargo. No coffee."

"What about tea?"

"Tea is allowed. God knows what would happen if you didn't get at least some of that."

Sherlock chuckled and John slid his hands down to rest on his hips. "Alright. No stimulants."

"Good. Now go to sleep. Apparently we have to go to a fitting tomorrow."

Ahh Francis. A brilliant barber but a man almost reaching Sherlock's level of bluntness.

"You look fucking awful. Get in the chair."

Sherlock smirked and dropped into the seat, John leaning against the wall by the door watching him. Francis had set up shop in one of the lower offices, a spotless white sheet on the floor underneath his pride and joy. A red and chrome barber's chair with all manner of pumps and levers at the side to ensure he could get the exact angel of his subjects head perfect.

"Who is that? See Sherlock. You come here with your awful ratty mess of a haircut and you bring a man with such a perfectly suited close crop I could weep tears of rapture, just to show up just how truly terrible this mess is."

John to his credit blushed a little and Sherlock winked at him. Francis was not only blunt, but extremely flamboyant in his expressions. The detective let his eyes slide closed as the scissors clipped and sliced a mere millimetre from his face, whirring at dizzying speeds.

Instead he replayed the moment when John had gotten of the bed over and over in his head, trying (With little success.) to not think about the fact he might actually get to dance, to show everyone that there was someone who could love him.

When Francis was done he slapped a hand down on Sherlock's shoulder and span him around to look in the mirror. His haircut was much shorter now, a fringe swept to the side, his hair now less curly and more wavy.

"Ah, perfect. Stay there."

Suddenly a flash bulb went off in his face and Sherlock blinked groggily, wobbling up from in the seat. He turned looking down on the shorter, stout and positively gleeful barber. "Thank you Francis."

"No no, just don't leave it so long next time eh?"

Sherlock nodded shaking his hand and ambling around the chair to head for the door. John looked up from the magazine he had been reading and promptly dropped it. Sherlock smirked and the flustered man blushed deeply bending down awkwardly to pick it up and put it on the side unit without taking his eyes off Sherlock's face.

"What?"

John coughed, smiling sheepishly and gesturing to the door. "Uh...nothing. Nothing."

The detective allowed himself a smug smile as he led his lover out into the deserted corridor, running his fingers through his newly shown hair. (He hated getting haircuts, his appearance mattered little to him, but if this was John's reaction to them then he would definitely be getting a lot more.)

It appeared John did like his new look.

Suddenly he was being spun around and was propelled backwards, sharp shoulder blades colliding with the wall as John pressed up against him, mouth insistent and his hands were smoothing down his chest, kiss all teeth and tongue. When he pulled back Sherlock let out a surprised laugh and the doctor, still flushing laughed too reaching up to run his fingers through his hair.

He really _really_ liked the haircut then.

"You like it then?"

"Yeah...yeah I do."

Sherlock heard the distinct clicking of Anthea's heels on the parquet flooring and pushed John away, the doctor acting surprised and a little hurt flashed in his gaze until Sherlock coughed and began walking with a finger to his lips. Anthea turned the corner ahead of them and looked up blinking in shock.

John smiled innocently at her and she smiled back with the odd spaced out smile she had perfected. "Ah, you are done. Wonderful. Mr Forrest will see you now."

Sherlock nodded and she was whisked away as a crowd of team members flew past them at breakneck speeds. John watched them go and tilted his head at Sherlock.

"Do they run everywhere?"

"You should see the annual sports day."

The doctor laughed and together they began the walk to the drawing room on the second floor.

This time when they entered Sherlock was instantly assailed by a tall thin man, sharply combed and slicked back hair, black waistcoat and sleeve protectors making him look like something from the 1920's or the P. books he had read as a child.

"Ah master Holmes. Lost more weight have you, I don't know why I bother keeping your measurement, you grow like the proverbial stick of bamboo."

He was rushed across the room and made to stand on a small wooden podium. A moment later John was brought across to stand on the other one to his left. "And who is this. What is your name young sir?"

John smiled "I'm John...John Watson."

"Doctor Watson I assume."

"Yes, how did you-"

"It's the hands my boy. I can always spot a doctor."

(Sherlock had noticed his mothers' attraction to straight talking servants or workers. But then, Mummy Holmes was anything but a procrastinator. If she said she was going to travel to Hong Kong for dinner then she damn well was going to Hong Kong this very minute. She also had an attraction to those who looked more closely, just as she did and had taught her sons to do.)

John nodded and suddenly they were both surrounded by a three way mirrored guard, told to strip to their underwear and hold perfectly still. Sherlock mourned the fact he couldn't even see John anymore but for his own blasted reflection, skinny colt like body, ghostly pale and too long, too thin.

He turned away and kept his eye line on the shining brass doorknobs , they offered but a tiny stretched image of John stood in boxers, vest and a pair of odd socks one light coloured the other black. He looked terrified as Mr. Forrest buzzed around him like an overexcited drone.

He listened carefully to the man's running commentary. "Ah good, yes, excellent. It is wonderful to work on a man with good proportions for once, yes your shoulders are a tad too wide but then every man has a flaw. Of course I can simply...hmm yes...perfect. Marjorie!"

Mr Forrest's assistant appeared from behind a large wooden travel wardrobe and began cutting fabric and pinning it to the baffled doctor, working from a tiny scroll of measurements the tailor had dropped into her hand before swinging into Sherlock's mirrored space.

His own fitting took mere minutes and he was accosted by the tailors' second assistant, Beverly. She was large woman who wore knitted jumper covered in kittens and flowers and smelt strongly of talcum powder. She bustled around him, humming to herself and slicing the fabric without looking, pins held between her plump red lips.

Occasionally she would catch Sherlock's eye and smile, or would mumble in her soft voice that he should be careful and that he was a thin as a whip. After she had stitched several small tacks into the fabric she let him slid the suit off, waistcoat and all and told him to get dressed and go to the wardrobe to pick out his shoes.

(Sherlock was well used to this having had his suits made by Mr. Forrest for years but John wasn't and Sherlock wondered what he must think right now. If he was as confused as Sherlock had been as a child.)

He turned the corner and saw John standing shyly by the wardrobe, hands behind his back and he smiled a little brighter when the detective approached him. "Why am I standing here?"

"We are to pick out shoes...Joe should be here in a moment."

"Joe?"

"He is the shoe boy."

Suddenly the doors were flung open and a large muscular man in a well fitted pinstripes waist coat and trousers, white shirt stretched over obscenely large bulging muscles, top two buttons undone as though the collar itself would not reach around his tree trunk thick neck, a neck that lead up to a shining bald head and dark sparkling beetle black eyes.

He grinned and dropped a large heavy red case at Sherlock's feet leaning down to grab him into a suffocating tight one armed hug that ended with a bruising thump to his chest. "Sherlock. How are you doing lad?"

"Joe, this is John. John this is the shoe boy, Joe."

"Nice to meet you."

Joe grinned and dropped down. John leant towards Sherlock and whispered into his ear. "You said boy, this is more like Joe the shoe bear."

"You have no idea."

John frowned and leant back. (It was best not to explain exactly how Sherlock had met Joe, or _where_ for that matter.)

"Here, new edition. Perfect for you." Sherlock sighed and sat down on the stool that had magically appeared behind him.

"Actually, this time I'm looking for something a bit more practical."

Joe raised an eyebrow and glanced to John. "Oh yeah? Going dancing are you?"

"Might do. Haven't decided yet."

"Oh. Cool... well these are probably better suited then."

Sherlock smiled and slid his feet in, they fit like a glove and he tied the laces up tapping a small beat out onto the floor with his heels. "Perfect. Thank you."

"No problem."

Joe stood up, towering over the doctor. "Alright kiddo. Put your feet in the blocks."

Sherlock sat in silence as Joe had a rather in depth discussion with John about the correct material, heel size, shoe lace style and fit for the doctor. He watched Johns facial expressions, they changed lightening fast and it was almost as of you could see every thought.

Remarkable.

When they had been fitted and had said goodbye to the men they made their excuses and left, walking slowly now, leisurely almost. "I thought I'd go see Harry."

"Ah, I will see you later then."

"No I meant...you should come too."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, something was up and John was pointedly not making eye contact with him. So he agreed to come along, reaching out to touch Johns hand when they were alone, quickly removing it whenever team members or staff rushed past, and nodding to the ones he knew. (He stopped when he realised that this was pretty suspicious.)

Harry was on the phone when they arrived at her room, and John led Sherlock over to sit on the bed as they waited for her to finish talking. (Judging by the blush and the defensive arm she held across herself when she spotted Johns head around the door she was talking to the new girlfriend.) John leant across and for a second his put his hand on the detective's knee.

"No matter what Harry says don't act surprised. She has been texting my phone over and over and I just need you to act as back up okay. Just go with what I say. And please, remember that I love you. This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me okay. I _love_ you."

Sherlock grinned. Anything John did was fine if he just kept saying that, even if he repeated it forever he was sure he would never tire of hearing it.

"Agreed. Let's hope I am a better actor than you."

"What?"

"Hey."

John turned to Harry sharply and smiled, his ears pink around the edges. "Hello."

Sherlock grinned up at Johns sister and she titled her head (Unnervingly just like John did. Although hers was less punchy, more calculated than her brothers.)

"Alright, you tell me then. Who is John seeing?"

Sherlock raised both his eyebrows. "What makes you think he is seeing anyone?"

"He is my brother you idiot. Plus he has been practically _peppy_ these last couple of days. If you know anything about John you'd know he isn't the peppiest person in the world."

Sherlock had to suppress a smirk at that. He really had such an effect on his lover? How very flattering. "John isn't seeing anybody."

"Oh yeah and how do you know that? You might not have noticed?"

John glanced at him, worry in his eyes and Sherlock allowed himself to smile, a wolfish grin that reflected back in the doctors wide panicked gaze.

"I am a detective, I_ notice_ everything."

He looked up at her through his eyelashes and she blushed, crossing her arms. "You can't notice everything. That is impossible."

John laughed and Harry looked at him, the tension broken. "I gave up on that belief by the second day. Trust me,** he** can."

She joined in the laughter where as Sherlock sat, still smirking as John got up to join his sister at the window. She sighed looking out at the extravagant view before turning back and pointing at John.

"Did you know about this dance thing?"

"It's a ball."

"Oh well excuse me."

John shook his head, a slight angry flash in his eyes although that was well masked by the relief Sherlock could sense in him. "Why didn't he mention it to you?"

"I don't know. Sherlock doesn't tell me anything."

"Oh John. We've been through this; I always tell you the important things!"

"No you don't!"

"Okay so sometimes I forget to let you in on the plan, but it always works out in the end."

John shook his head trying to feign anger but he was grinning ear to ear and Sherlock found he couldn't stop either. (He also pointedly ignored the glances Harry was giving him. Knowing glances. The worst kind.)

"Great, I have to go to a ball and have no one to dance with. You'd better not desert me John."

Harry pointed an accusatory finger at her brother, hand on hip.

"I won't."

"What about you curly, you going to dance with me?"

"I don't dance-"

"He hasn't ever-"

He and John had spoken at the same time and Sherlock felt a blush rising up his neck. "I don't dance."

"Not ever?"

"No."

"Well I guess it's just you and me brother."

She smiled and John joined in, eyes flickering to Sherlock and back for the tiniest moment. Suddenly his phone went off and the detective excused himself, leaving the sibling alone as he wandered out into the hall.

"Yes hello?"

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade."

"Just got my invitation the ball."

"He sent them to Anderson and Donovan didn't he."

"Well...yes."

Sherlock growled and put a hand to his face. "Excellent."

"Well maybe if you had involved me in the blue rabbit thing a bit more I could've spent some time making sure they were too busy to come."

"The deal was you bring me cases not the other way around."

"A partnership works both ways."

"This is not a partnership."

"Sherlock, you have to understand that-"

He stopped listening as Lestrade started on one of his rants. He had always reminded Sherlock of his father, in fact that was how he acted. Like Sherlock was an unruly child and Lestrade his long suffering parent.

"Yes, are you quite done?"

Lestrade sighed. "I did try and stop them, but they insisted, it seems the image of you sat in a corner alone every year is too much for them."

"Perhaps this year I won't be alone."

Lestrade laughed. "So you told him then?"

"Not quite."

"What? What does that mean?"

"I have to go. Good bye."

He hung up on the detectives spluttering and smiled at John who had just breezed through the doors. "Peppy?"

"Shut up."

Sherlock grinned and John pushed past him. He made John _peppy_. Brilliant.

He was much less excited the next day. He felt more nervous now and by every hour than he had ever felt be, at least in his observable memory. They spent most of the day in one of the offices. Sherlock had been neglecting his work recently and so he threw himself into it in an attempt to hide his fears, the team members blatantly avoiding his corner of the room.

He was almost unbearably anxious of being rejected again that night, and yet his mind couldn't help but constantly remind him that maybe, just maybe tonight would be the night. Tonight they would all see. Or so he hoped. There was also the fact that for once he was worried about John, he didn't want to force him into it...(Yes, he was as surprised as anyone else would be that he was actually worried about someone else's thoughts or feelings but then, this **was **John.)

Unfortunately he was less able to hide than he thought (And after all he had managed to hide a lot of things from a lot of people very successfully in the past.) and by the time it was three hours until the dance John had gotten up, tapping him on the shoulder and walking out without saying a word. For some reason he knew this meant he was supposed to follow and so he did.

Not that he wouldn't have anyway.

"Alright what is wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've only solved three cases all day Sherlock. "

The detective put his hands on his hips and looked away. "So?"

"These are primary school level cases for you. By now you would normally have finished them all and had spent at least an hour blowing something up."

"Perhaps they are more difficult than you-"

"Don't give me that."

Sherlock shoulders dropped and he moved out of the way of a team member who hurried past with a box full of tinsel, a polite smile gracing her features before she rustled around the corner. "Is this about the ball?"

"Nope. It's fine John."

The doctor fixed him the same look he usually did when Sherlock tried to explain away scorch marks on the ceiling or body parts in the bathroom. He wasn't buying it.

"Okay, so I don't want you to feel like I want you to dance and then you not want to dance but you do it anyway because you know I want to but I don't want to if you don't actually...want...to?"

John raised both his eyebrows closing his eyes for a moment. "Right."

"You understand?"

"I understand. It's fine Sherlock, really it is."

"So you won't dance with me unless you actually want to."

"I promise."

"Good. Right. Good."

"Okay?"

"Yes."

John glanced both ways before reaching out and gripping Sherlock's hand, giving it a squeeze but abruptly letting go when the tinsel-box woman came back around the corner with a jolly wave.

His talk with John had helped a little but not enough to stop his hands shaking as he buttoned up his shirt, sliding his brand new suit on. John had decided to get changed in the bathroom and so Sherlock was using the small hand mirror to fuss about his hair. He swept it to the side over and over, palms a little sweaty.

God dammit.

He rubbed his hand against the bed sheet and sat down, checking the clock for the fifth time in the last two minutes and staring at the wardrobe. There was no going back, and besides even if he couldn't have John in public he would always have him here, alone.

The bathroom door opened and John stepped out, brushing down the front of his three piece, with a contemplative expression on his face. He sniffed and looked up as he spoke. "How do I look?"

His smile dimmed when he looked at Sherlock, his face going a little bit red.

That was probably because when Sherlock had seen him his mouth had gone dry, his stomach flipping so much that he couldn't really think very clearly and he just stared blatantly at the man. John was...was just _stunning_ and Sherlock certainly considered himself stunned.

He felt a blush spread up his neck and his face was burning as he stumbled to his feet gesturing vaguely up and down at the doctor. "You look...look... do you really want to go? We could just stay here and..."

John laughed blushing beetroot and rubbing a hand through his hair, palm coming to rest behind his head. "I look okay then?"

"Yes. Okay, okay would definitely not be the word. Greater than okay...what is that?"

John chuckled and walked (Strutted but then he earned It.) up to him pulling his still babbling lips into an all too brief kiss. He then stepped back and surveyed the detective with a wide beam. "You look very...handsome."

Sherlock ducked his head grinning and flicking imaginary specks from his front. That was the first time anybody had said that to him with so much conviction. "I do?"

"Oh yes, very handsome."

There was a knock at the door and John shook his head walking to answer it. Harry swept around the doorframe and glanced Sherlock up and down. "You clean up well; at least you don't look like you are in the middle of a murder spree now."

Sherlock shrugged and didn't comment on what she was wearing, a blue silky thing with darker blue heels and her hair in an up do. "Why, don't you look the respectable doctor."

"Thanks. You look..."

"Yes I know. I look like a girl. Amazing isn't it."

John laughed and nodded his head. "Sherlock? Come on."

He let out a shivery sigh and rubbed his hands against his thighs before following John out of the door. Well here it goes.

The ballroom had been decked out in delicate golden decorations that hung down from the ceiling everywhere, a enormous Christmas tree in the far left corner covered in what must have been hundreds of tiny shining gold and silver balls, stage with a full orchestra to the right and a buffet table lining the wall ahead of them. By the tree were several tables with white tablecloths and the waiter and waitresses from the caterers flitted about in matching uniforms offering alcohol and finger foods.

As soon as they got there Sherlock made an automatic bee line for his usual table, perching himself straight into his seat and just as John ducked to sit next to him Harry grabbed his arm and tugged her brother towards herself.

"Hey, you said you were going to dance. Come on."

John opened his mouth and glanced down at his lover. Sherlock just looked away and nodded his head almost imperceptibly to indicate it was fine with him.

John could dance with his sister. That was fine. (He wasn't even a tiny bit jealous. Nope, not at all.)

They had arrived a little later than the other guests and the dance floor was filled with couples dancing enthusiastically to modern music, flickering lights and a horrible pounding bass line.

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his phone. It was going to be a long night.

Every now and then he'd glance up from his phone to see John laughing and joining in with the other dancers, and would take a gulp of his drink. So John said he wasn't allowed alcohol, well John wasn't there was he.

And that made this year worse; it was worse than before because now he knew that he had gotten his hopes up for nothing. John had made it perfectly clear he wasn't ready so why had he even entertained the idea? His masochistic tendencies probably.

He was still wallowing in self pity when the music changed and Mycroft announced over the speaker system that the traditional waltz would begin in five minutes, barely glancing up as John and Harry returned to the table breathless and giggling.

"Hey curly. Cheer up it's a party."

Sherlock just glanced at her, eyes cold. He was in no mood to be cheerful, and he definitely wouldn't look at John. He knew he would see the disappointment in him somehow and he didn't want to deal with it right now.

He was perfectly fine to remain here, bitter as usual.

That is until Harry stuck out a hand, voice full of excitement and sickening kindness. "I've never waltzed before. If you haven't danced before, let's make tonight the night you do."

Sherlock opened his mouth and stared up at her. Dancing with Harry? That wasn't what he wanted. But then, it would show John, perhaps it would even hurt him a little...

"No, I don't dance."

She opened her mouth to argue and suddenly Lestrade appeared at the table as if he materialised from the giggling joyful hordes. He ducked between Harry and Sherlock and smiled at her, sticking out a hand.

"Ms Watson, care to let me have this dance?"

She laughed and grinned kindly at him. "I'm a lesbian."

"A lesbian who can't dance?"

She let out a chuckle and Lestrade grinned linking his arm through hers, dragging her towards the dance floor. He glanced over his shoulder and winked at the detective without a word.

John frowned, standing with his hands on his hips just looking at his lover without a word. Sherlock still didn't look up at him, instead pretending to focus on the couple on a nearby table, drunkenly making out.

Oh how he wanted to go over there and kick them apart. Especially as he was cheating on her.

Suddenly the doctor let out a long breath as if he had been holding it in a while and stuck his hand out. "Dance with me."

Sherlock finally looked at him; the doctor was staring down at him with determination. "No."

(He had hoped to see something like the pain he felt at rejection in John's eyes. He was furious at how relived he was not to see it. In fact John just seemed to match his own furious gaze exactly.)

"Sherlock, either you get up yourself or I drag you. We are going to dance."

He was using the voice and oddly Sherlock felt his stomach flip. He was going to be bitter dammit, John wasn't supposed to waltz over and demand he dance. "I don't want to just becau-"

"Listen to me. If I didn't want this, I wouldn't ask."

Sherlock squinted at him but it was obvious John was telling the truth so he got to his feet, sliding his phone back into his pocket and trying very _very_ hard not to jump on top of his lover, allowing a smile to stretch across his face instead. Any anger from before had disappeared, almost directly correlating to the rate of the smile that grew on his lovers face and the pleased sigh he emitted.

The doctor gripped his hand and dragged him right into the middle of the dance floor, pausing for a second before placing on a hand on the taller mans hip the other lifting Sherlock's hand up. The music began and John squeezed his hand, visibly nervous.

"Sherlock, come on."

So he did. He pulled him closer to his chest and began with a little two step they had perfected, waiting for the twirl of the dancers to reach them before taking John into the waltz. John leant his head against his neck and sighed as they floated along, just one of the crowd.

It was perfect, it was everything he had thought about and he let his happiness bubble up releasing itself as a low chuckle at the back of his throat. Occasionally he would catch the eye of a couple nearby and would share a happy smile, receiving nods and waves. Long term team members shocked but pleased expressions were the icing on the cake and he closed his eyes, letting his mind drift to the music.

"Oh my god, I've just seen Anderson and Donovan."

"Where?"

John pulled Sherlock a little tighter and spun him around so he could see the couple blatantly staring at them, a few couples away. He winked and Anderson's mouth literally dropped open, Donovan snarling as he accidently stepped on her foot.

"I think they are coming over."

"Think we can somehow sashay our way out of this?"

"No time."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"Oh for god's sake."

Just as Anderson and Donovan reached them John leant up pulling Sherlock's face down and pushed his tongue into his mouth. Sherlock's eyes slid closed and he promptly forgot about the other dancers in favour of John's lips, John's breath.

_John._

When he pulled back and slid his eyes back open Anderson and Donovan were nowhere to be seen. John however was bright red in the face and had his thumb smoothing over and over the back of Sherlock's palm as they danced.

"It worked."

Ingenious.

"Yep. It definitely did that."

Sherlock chuckled and John joined in. The music came to an end and the dancers around them bowed to each other clapping their fellow dancers. Sherlock joined in, lazily brining his hands together, hands patting him on the shoulder as people began to exit the dance floor. John reached out and grabbed his hand, nodding and twitching his lips at the other dancers.

"Ready?"

Sherlock glanced to their table. Lestrade was at next to Harry, Mycroft AND Mummy.

Ah, this was the bit John was worried about.

He squeezed the shorter man's hand and John took a deep breath. "Absolutely."

"Sherlock dear, why didn't you come find me when you arrived."

Mummy swept up from her seat and pulled Sherlock's face towards her, placing a wet kiss on his cheek and then doing the same thing to John, hand patting him on the arm and resting there as she leant back to look at them..

"Oh look at you. Don't you look handsome. I must get a photograph of you two together."

She suddenly whisked off across the dance floor snapping her fingers and melting into the crowds. John raised his eyebrow up at Sherlock and he grinned.

"Mummy likes to drink when she dances."

"Oh I am sure she is just all aflutter over your little foray into dancing Sherlock."

Oh of course. _Mycroft_.

"She is probably sleeping in a pot plant somewhere right now. Surely it is your turn to tend to her."

Mycroft sighed and got to his feet. "Detective Inspector, Mr. Watson."

He tipped his hat to them both and paused before walking past his brother, fixing them both with that knowing smirk. So slimy. Sherlock looked away, turning his nose up at his brother.

"I am...pleased you have come to a satisfactory arrangement doctor. You are a better man than most to put up with my brother."

"Uh...thank you."

Mycroft shook his hand and in an almost identical sweeping motion to his mother he too disappearing into the team members.

That left Harry and Lestrade to sit grinning up at them, evil glint in both their eyes and Sherlock sighed sliding into his seat. John was still holding his hand. (He gleefully noted. In fact the doctor was sitting almost on top of him, leg jiggling under the table. Still nervous then.)

"Sooo." Lestrade glanced between them, a smile so wide on his face he looked like some sort of maniacal clown. "Isn't this a turn up." He gestured between the two with almost gleeful laughter in his eyes. "Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, dancing..._making out_ no less in the middle of a dance floor."

"You do dance then."

Ah Harry. Abrupt as always. No qualms about interrupting Lestrade obviously.

"It would appear so wouldn't it."

"Why didn't you tell me about this earlier? Huh? Big brother? Like hiding things from me do you?"

"I...we..."

"I told him not to."

John glanced at him and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. (It was the least he could do after John had just outed himself to satisfy Sherlock's pathetic desire to fit in for once. Well as much as he _could_ fit in that was.)

"Yeah. Sherlock asked me not to."

"Oooh, so when I called you earlier and asked if you had told him..."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes."

"So you had told him, you just decided not to tell me that."

"Pretty much."

Sherlock titled his head. He really wanted them to go away now. As proud and happy he was to have everyone seeing that someone could and does love him he was tired of being stared at like that and he really wanted to talk to John.

And only John.

Alas a second later just as John got started answering Harry's barrage of questions the frankly shell shocked (And somewhat unnervingly bitter) visage of sally Donovan swept down by his face, much too close in fact and after a second she stood back, arms crossed.

"So. You and the freak huh?"

Harry frowned, eyeing the woman suspiciously. It smacked of John's danger face and Sherlock grinned a little brighter. Perhaps this could go a bit better than he expected. (He had no doubt who would win if it came to a fight after all.)

John calmly turned to look up at her, just as Anderson slid up behind the cocky woman. "If you are asking me if Sherlock and I are in a relationship then I would say, it is none of your business."

"Oh my god. Really? You do realise he is a psychopath right?"

They were looking down at them, twin smug raptor like grins gracing their faces. Harry downright bristled and coolly put her hands on her lap, lifting her chin and taking a breath. "Excuse me maam, but do you have some sort of issue with my brother and his partner's relationship?"

Donovan blushed at the maam remark and glared at John sister. "I was just warning him that Sherlock Holmes isn't exactly relationship material."

"And you would know that how?"

"Well... I...he..."

"Exactly."

It was Donovan's turn to bristle and she uncrossed her arm, hands balling up at her side. Sherlock could practically see her mind trying to think up a retort.

"It's not right!"

There was a long beat of frankly shocked silence and Sally kept frowning, hands now on her hips. She wobbled a bit as she stepped forward and Sherlock leant towards John whispering in his ear. "I think she is more than a little drunk John."

"What was that? What did you say about me? You can't say anything filthy fucking fa-"

Harry slammed her hand down on the table, interrupting Sally's tirade. "I would suggest you don't make face value judgements on people maam. Especially when you look like you do."

Donovan's mouth dropped open and Anderson went to pull her away. "Come on Sally..."

"And what are you saying I look like exactly?"

Harry got primly to her feet, clasping her handbag in her hands. John let go of Sherlock's hand to try and stop her. He didn't manage it before Sally was right up against her, pointing in her face and raising her voice.

"Well come on. What do I look like...got nothing to say? Smart move you snidy little bi-"

She didn't finish her sentence because Harry had stepped forwards and stamped on her foot. She reached out and gripped her by the arms and Sally hissed in pain. "I'd shut up if I was you. I get it, you are drunk, and you don't like Sherlock, fine. Just leave it alone."

"Oh yeah what you going to do if I don't? What, are you actually okay with your brother fucking this fu-"

She let out a shriek as Harry slapped her hard across the face.

Anderson grabbed her around the waist and started dragging her away, glaring over her head at John and Sherlock. Harry let out a short breath and murmured under her breath.

"Bigoted bitch."

She then slid back into her seta just as Lestrade was leaving his, face stern. Ah Sally was going to be in a lot of trouble it seemed.

"I will just go and have a chat with Donovan."

John raised his hand shaking his head. "Don't... she is just...very drunk."

"Are you saying she doesn't need to apologise for that?"

"Oh no, just I don't think it should affect her... _professionally_." The doctor raised his eyebrows shrugging his shoulders a little. (John always did forgive easily. Except for Bossley of course. But that was a given.)

Sherlock knocked against him. "Why not?"

John turned and gave him a look that smacked of the voice. Oh dear.

"Because people make mistakes. Anyway, just apologising to you would be punishment enough I think. "

Sherlock shrugged. It wasn't like she had offended him; she had after all called him much worse. (When she thought he wasn't there to be fair, she could barely solve a simple murder let alone realise that the person she was bitching about was currently crouched inside the dumpster in the very alleyway she happened to be in.)

Lestrade sighed. "Right well. I will get her to apologise then."

Ah, as always acting like the responsible parent. He glanced up and spotted Anderson trying to wrestle her out of the door.

"In the morning."

Harry smirked and glanced up at him. "Hey, twinkle toes, that little chat has got me all pumped up again. Want to dance?"

"Sure."

Lestrade grinned and Harry looked down at John. "Sorry about that. Couldn't let her say shit like that, about you and curly."

"It's fine, really. It is."

"Well, me and twinkle toes here are going to dance. You two going to join us or you gonna stay here and wait for Bones and Mummy to come back?"

(Bones? Surely she didn't refer to Mycroft as _Bones_.)

"Probably wait here for a bit."

"Alright. See you later. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

She waved a hand as did Lestrade and together they danced their way onto the floor. It was an odd sight.

"Harry seems to like Lestrade."

"Yeah."

"Does she come up with stupid nicknames for everyone?"

"Yep."

"Why don't you have one then?"

"Family doesn't count."

John smiled eyes faraway for a second before he turned in his seat and grinned wickedly at Sherlock.

"So, we showed our faces, caused a fight, and danced the waltz. Want to go now?"

Sherlock beamed. Ah that was why he loved John. So very perceptive. "After you."

Unfortunately they didn't manage to leave before Mycroft found them, a drunken giggling Mummy waving her hands around in front of their faces close on his heels.

"Wait, wait there. Mycroft! Get the camera!"

Mycroft sighed and John stopped in his tracks placing his hands around Sherlock's waist, the detective put his on the small of his lovers back and they smiled (Genuinely for once.) at the camera, ducking away as soon as the flash had faded.

They all but ran back through the house, Sherlock running almost high on adrenaline and the rush he got when Johns hand tightened on his on heightened that. He pressed himself up against John as the doctor tried to unlock the door, needing the connection now more than ever. It were as if he couldn't breathe without that touch and John gasped turning and pulling him inside, the detective kicking it closed behind them.

Sherlock paused he wasn't sure exactly what to say now but then it didn't matter because Johns hands were already on him, pushing him towards the bed and unbuttoning his shirt at the same time. He was pushed backward and landed bouncing on the mattress, breathless and eager, instantly assailed by the unforgiving focussed and intent John.

When they were both reasonably undressed Sherlock paused and pressed a soft, barely there kiss to Johns lips as the doctor leant over him, stopping him in his tracks. The light shining through the window was minimal and he could just make out the doctors flushed face, eyes flickering over his face, one hand against his cheek, thumb stroking across his cheekbone almost with reverence.

"Thank you."

His voice sounded booming in the almost silent room, distant music from the still going party permeating the old wooden floor and John simply smiled, leaning down to kiss him back.

He woke the next morning with the doctor thrown over him, drooling on the bare skin of his side and mumbling in his sleep. He grinned. Yesterday had gone well...really well. Much better than he could ever have expected...and the night after hadn't been bad either. (In fact if it was always to be like _that_, he didn't see the point of leaving the bed ever again.)

He chuckled and the movement of his chest seemed to rouse his lover, John's eyes blinking blearily and glancing up at him, down to where the covers barely covered their hips and then back up with a (Rather satisfied.) smirk.

"Good morning."

"Yes it is."

John laughed and rolled off him and onto his back; leaving the detectives skin to tingle with the cold morning air on slightly sweaty, newly exposed flesh. He shivered and pulled the quilt up to cover himself. John was lying next to him rubbing a hand over his face and giggling to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing it's just...you were right you know. I was ashamed."

**What**. Sherlock's heart dropped and he frowned a bit put out. (Okay more that a bit. His mind was screaming at him to find out for sure that he meant that he **wasn't** any more...) "Oh."

John glanced up at him and shook his head, sliding his hand through the covers to find Sherlock's. "No no. Not of you, not of this."

Okay. Crisis averted. This seemed to be a segue into one of those 'relationship' talks he had read about on the internet. He was excepted to understand this emotional stuff so he concentrated hard on what John was saying.

"When I was young I knew, I knew I liked guys as well as girls but I was older than Harry and I wasn't nearly as brave. I was scared people would...that my parents wouldn't accept it so I played it safe. Convinced myself it was nothing and since I liked girls it would just go away. By the time I was even halfway ready to mention it Harry had already come out to our parents and...well my worst fears about them were realised and I just...I couldn't do it."

He paused here pulling Sherlock hand up to kiss his knuckles, lazily playing with his hand. His eyes were slightly vacant and he frowned at their hands.

"So I didn't tell anybody, ever. I dated girls; I slept with girls I talked about girls. Not once did I mention or even allow myself to think... well then I met you and I couldn't stop myself, I couldn't help it. Thanks by the way. You have no idea..."

Sherlock grinned. Oh. Well. That wasn't so bad. He leant back, his mind replaying the past couple of months, focussing directly on the moment he realised that he could, that he **did** love John.

"When did you realise you love me?"

John choked and Sherlock patently watched him as he tried to recover. (In fact his mind was singular on this. He couldn't pinpoint why it was so important but he really _really_ wanted to know.)

John sighed and tilted his head. "I don't really think there was a moment..."

"If you had to pinpoint one."

"Uhh... I guess that night when the heating went down and you were sleeping on the sofa, or rather the morning after. I woke up and when I looked at you I... well it kind of hit home."

Sherlock grinned. He had thought that was a pivotal moment. He had been right.

"What about you?"

Well this was easy. "I suspected I did when you had been taken at the supermarket and Mycroft was being very kind to me. Obviously out of character for him and I realised he was reacting to something about my appearance and if he could notice something was affecting me then perhaps I was truly experiencing what I thought was love. My conversation with Lestrade on the way to a crime scene a couple days after only solidified that."

He shrugged. John shook his head.

"This is...so bizarre."

Sherlock was silent for a long time and John turned to stare at him. "Bizarre?"

"Well, how long ago was it we were just flatmates, in the actual flat."

"I don't-"

"It doesn't matter."

John laughed and crawled over him, climbing out of the bed and walking across the creaking floorboards gingerly. They were probably quite cold but Sherlock's mind had helpfully gone completely blank watching a very naked John pick his way through their clothes to reach the wardrobe.

"Come on. Mycroft said there is going to be gift giving at 9 so..."

Sherlock yawned. Oh of course, that particular tradition. Again this year would be quite different.

He heard the shower start in the en-suite and his mouth twitched. He did need a shower...

If John was surprised to see him he didn't show it and Sherlock slipped in behind him, taking the shampoo from his hand and rubbing it into his own scalp.

"I should've known. Can't have anything for myself with you can I."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Remember a particular red sweater..."

Sherlock didn't comment. Instead he tugged the loofa from Johns hand and began scrubbing his back, sliding his hands over the shorter man shoulder and down his chest. After a few seconds of this he took a step forwards, dropping the loofa and pulling the (Only barely.) fighting man towards him.

"We will be late."

Sherlock smirked and brought John flush against him, staying silent.

"But then again...if we are quick..."

They **were** late for the gift giving thanks to Sherlock's impromptu shower visit, but he did manage to convince John to let him wear the sweater even though it took up valuable time rifling through the messily unpacked clothes.

Win/win on his part.

When they entered the drawing room Mycroft, Mummy, Anthea and Harry stopped their conversation and stared up at them. Sherlock's brother was already wearing a particularly hideous Christmas jumper (Most likely from Mummy.) and he was perched in a armchair next to a large gold and red decorated tree, crackling fire in the fireplace and Mummy lounging on a chaise long , Harry wedged on another quaint sofa with Anthea.

They were all holding glasses of what appeared to be wine (Besides Harry of course. She had what had to be cranberry juice.) And John gently brushed his fingers against Sherlock palm as he crossed the room to settle on the remaining sofa.

Sherlock had always hated the things, slightly too large to be an armchair, slightly too small to be a sofa, they were floral and smelt of polished wood and too fresh fabric. Regardless John was on one of them so he too swept across the room and bounced down next to his lover, flipping his legs over Johns and leaning against the arm. The doctor simply pulled his legs up a little and settled himself into his seat.

Mummy raised an eyebrow all the warmth form the night before wiped from her face. She looked like a particularly cold statue of herself and thankfully remained as silent as though she was.

"Alright. Now we are all here, let's begin."

Sherlock sat passively through this, after all, every year he would receive presents and every year he would sit through the exasperated stares after nobody received presents from him. Every year without fail.

But this one of course.

"From Sherlock to John."

The doctor leant forwards to take his present from Mycroft, oblivious to the three regulars who stared at him and then at Sherlock. John sat back and looked up, pausing for a moment as he took in the clearly shocked faces of the others before turning to look at his lover and then rolling his eyes.

"I take it you don't give presents."

"No."

"First time."

"Yes."

John shook his head and didn't even try to hide his smile. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as he carefully unwrapped his present, pulling back the silver foil paper Sherlock had stolen from one of the offices during his stay at Mycroft's manor after the events of the blue rabbit house.

(John thankfully didn't ask him anything about the present whilst the others were in the room. He had chosen it months ago after passing by at breakneck speeds during a chase after a jewel thief. Doubling back after on, he paid for the gift with shaking hands and didn't really want to recall that story to his cold mother or distinctly irritating brother.).

His heart was in his throat as John turned the leather bound notebook over and over in his hands, carefully sliding the expensive pen in and out of its slot and flicking through the gold-edged paper.

He grinned.

There was a gust of wind as everyone exhaled at once. He liked it. _Success_. John turned to him smiling softly.

"Thank you."

Sherlock ducked his head and John leant towards him pecking him dryly on the lips. Mycroft glanced to Mummy and they shared a knowing look, the older sibling smiling.

"Ah, one left."

Mycroft ducked down and pulled up an envelope Sherlock's name in familiar neat handwriting on the front. "This must be from John."

The doctor nodded and Sherlock reached out to take the slightly heavy parcel from him. He licked his lips and slid a finger under the paper flap peering in.

"It's not much..." John was blushing a little and squeezed the detective's knee nervously.

Inside was a long chain and he pulled it up two thin but heavy metal ovals swinging in the air in front of him.

**RAMC, Watson. J. MD** stamped on both disks.

They were John's dog tags.

He frowned then raised his eyebrows then frowned again. He wasn't sure but he had an inkling that this was a particularly important or special thing to give to someone and when he looked up at John he knew that this was correct. His heart fluttered in his chest and he let a smile spread slowly across his face.

"Thank you John."

Mummy actually gasped. The first time Sherlock had thanked someone for a gift. A monumental moment indeed.

The doctor blushed and nodded at him, eyes still glinting nervously. "There is something else."

Sherlock glanced down and saw what he had dismissed in return for the tags. A piece of folded paper, John's handwriting showing through the thin sheet. Sherlock's lips twitched and he slid the tags into his breast pocket, fingers lingering there, over his heart, for just a moment before he deftly slid the paper out.

He glanced up after he had read the first line and caught the doctor's eye. This he didn't expect.

I like your eyes.

I like that you do remember to keep me informed most of the time

I like that you don't care what anybody thinks

I like how intelligent you are

I like that you don't know everything even if sometimes it seems that way

I like that I am the only one who seems to understand you sometimes

I like that you can pull off that stupid red sweater

I like how I can't even eat my own food without you taking half of it

I like that you laugh at my jokes

I like your laugh

In fact like your voice even when you are complaining

Sherlock read through the (Much longer than he expected.) list, the others so quiet that he could hear the tiny stream of gas escaping from the logs in the fireplace. He got to the last line and looked up sharing a moment where it seemed for a split second that he and John were the only people in the world.

I like that no matter how much I tried to convince myself it wasn't happening you made me fall in love with you anyway

But then, to him at least, they were.


	16. Chapter 16

Hello everyone. I was helpfully reminded that anybody who had me on story alert would be getting this message and so I wanted to tell you guys about the sequel to A Habit. It's called Unfinished Business and I would love it if you took the time to have a look. I know you would be expecting a new chapter but technically the other story is the chapter this should be. If that makes any sense. Which it really doesn't.

.net/s/6457460/1/

Anyway, this is the link to the new story. Hope I see you guys there (:


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